Saturday Morning

Gregory Cartwright is in the second year of his Creative Writing and English Language degree.

Somebody died last night

doing 90 on the main road

in the darkness.

Cat’s-eyes the only witnesses

as the police arrived too late                                                                                                      

and the capsized tree shed its leaves

like confetti.


And over in the field

hooded youths trampled brambles

and stepped on crops, eager for a closer look.                                                                           

A slice of the action.

Reality check.



Police are everywhere tonight –

like slugs on a cold summer’s night.                                                                                        

Be careful where you tread.

On the high street: a break in;

bank robbery, heist, Britallian job.

Police search for stolen money

long gone.                                                                                                                                 


And slags over the road spew out of clubs –

strutting like swans, in the wind, swaying.

Lads follow – sweaty, lager-ridden, junk hungry.

They see the lights.

4.5 million.                                                                                                                               

Broken locks and empty vaults.