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.