A thin slip of blue sky, beneath the black clouds
Which hover over the long and flat far distant horizon
I drive by; where are you now
Flourishing purple thistle chokes the fine grasses
A strong West to East breeze blows
Across the taller species
I drive by; why did we go separate ways
Real Jersey Milk at the Caravan Club campsite
Early morning railway freight wagons queue
At the entrance to Hope Quarry
I drive by; when will I forgive myself
Mist shrouds the valley of the near distant town
Striped circus tents, and gypsy caravans, beside the festival field
Black plastic covered, rolled up bales, on the lime-green grass
I drive by; would it have mattered
If I had stopped to breathe, if I had taken you a photograph
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