By Fiona Sinclair
On the road, uncle’s sat nav commentary directs
us back to his salesman days,
I’ve stayed there often
They always bought tea towels.
At Chichester Cathedral I insist on photographs of aunt and myself ;
because discounting chavs , petty criminals,
and those who keep us at Christmas card distance,
she is my only relative,
and time like a bowling ball is scattering her 70s .
After lunch at Bosham Quay,
an hour lost in a bijou boutique
as we ransack clothes rails
daring each other to buy.
Outside, uncle has the engine running,
he points the car homeward
Quick route or pretty?
I try to squeeze the last dregs out of the trip
suggesting tea and a look round Lewes.
But we shuffle out of the café
relieved to find that the day has already been snuffed out.