Saint Sid of Corby


Just east of Northampton
(by the Lumbertubs roundabout on the A43)
you pull over for me and my outstretched thumb

I lug my rucksack up into your cab
and climb up and over and in
with almost childish excitement
(for lifts from lorries are such a rarity nowadays)

Five minutes into the journey
as if on an angel's nod or wink
you quickly cross-fade our conversation
over to that Deeper Stuff we wayfarers are always hungering for
and I feel that hitch-hiking glow
in my hitch-hiker's heart
at the meeting of two comfortable strangers

"See that, Stephen," you say
pointing to the army of hairs on your forearm
now standing to attention as one

"That tells me something important is happening in here right now"

You drop me off just outside Corby
but as I climb down
you call me back up

"Stephen," you say
"If ever you find yourself
standing on the edge of something
you know you've got to do
but are dithering about doing it
just think of Sid
right behind you, mate
giving you a mighty royal kick up the arse"

Ah, Sid, many times over the years
I’ve remembered you and your words
(and blessed you and all that you love)
but until now
I've never dared redeem the threat of that promise that you made

But today
is the day
that this timid English hitch-hiking poet
needs to get out of the passenger seat
and into the driving seat

Ah, good Sid
wherever you are
by the hairs on your arm
and the hairs on my arse
let your sweet boot swing, my friend
let your sweet boot swing