What Is Hope?

Trudging through Tadworth
Heels hurting
but back in business
somewhere between Russian peasant and prostitute
A few flakes of snow fall
before breakfast.

‘Where’s a cafe, please?’ I petition a postman in shorts.
He pauses and I wonder if he understood.
When he answers, eventually,
his vowels are as strange to me as a Frenchman’s. I tune in.
‘Carry on straight (tout droite), it’s about 7 minutes - are you walking?’
I am; his hesitation was in whether to offer a lift.
Getting in his car alone he says sadly ‘I hope it won’t be too far for you.’

Et tu, me too, I don’t want to walk!
But this is nowhere with rubbish blowing
through the railway trenches
And we are in no man’s land.