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 throw my rucksack up into your cab
and climb up and over and in
excitedly
(for lifts from lorries are a rarity nowadays)

Five minutes in
as if on an angel's nod and 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 apparent 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
and 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 big royal kick up the arse"

Ah, Sid, many times over the years
have I 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 this side of midnight
and the turning of the years
it's time for this hitch-hiking English poet
to pull his poetic finger out
lick it
and stick it in the air

and thereby set my course

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