Heading Home from Market Weighton

Early doors: the sun a hard rind
over the tops, fog sleeping in dips
across the road. I’ve left him,
forlorn, in a new job he hates;
suddenly my son, instead
of my husband. I’m too near home
to turn back, the lies I told
to get him through the day,
already mildewed. The morning
knows no life; the umber tail of a fox
beneath a hedge is absolute colour.
White lines peel under the wheels,
catching on the hours still to come
and somewhere, back there, his day
is being metered out in misery.
When I return, our home feels hot
and bruised beneath my palm.