I watched her enter as we drove by,
blonde-haired and slight and happy,
a small dog yapping at her heels,
comfortably clothed, her slim hands
confident on a heavy, black door.
Despite the weary August sun,
this one last heave of summer,
I thought of first frosts and sloes,
and late morning fires,
of a cheery, ruddy barman
and the lingering scents of autumn
mingling with warm notes of
old beer and wood smoke.
I wondered how we'd spend an hour.
Fond talk of woodland walks?
Of churchyards and lost orchards?
Of times gone by and times to come?
I will never know her voice,
or even see her one more time.
Yet this roadside, momentary tableau,
of a woman at a country inn,
stirs longing for the quiet unknown,
prompts melancholy at small things fled:
dark humours dulling sense and lust
that seep between my days,
causing empty hours to moulder
and me think to think of
all I said I'd do and be,
but which now seems slight
and tired and far away on the
slowly darkening horizon.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...