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But I Digress
by Joanna M. Weston

south into hop country
and an oast house
at the end of the road
where the pungent smell
of brewing permeated
the September bus-stop
beyond the house
where we’d buy jugs
of home-made cider
for two shillings

the bus was sixpence
to the next town
where we’d get a transfer
for the cathedral
a wonder to my eyes

or was it the train
to school and points north
rains gusting like tears
on the sports field
trees and the shrieks
of lacrosse players

which brings me back
to where I am catching
the bus by the train station
to the comfort of home
among hop fields