The young Japanese woman walks by
This was the road, now it isn’t
Please drive carefully, especially
Beware of the weeping willow
One of them had a camera
And a shoulder bag saying Mom
The other more of a hiker’s rucksack
To go with her forward’s gait
The 257 bus arrived
Just as I reached Bamford station
If I had have waited for all of that time
Would any of it have been wasted
I am not sure
If I should sit
For I am only
Half-way home
But that one tree
On the far horizon
Captivated
My every thought
So I did sit
And gifted
These few words
To all of those
Who are lucky enough
To pass this way
At the very beginning
Of autumn
I am in
The Yorkshire Bridge Inn
I have ordered
Homemade Steak & Kidney Pie
And a pint of Farmer’s Blonde
By the local Bradfield Brewery
Actually it will be my second
For I was here an hour ago
But they stop serving food
(Perhaps to give the cook a break)
Between three and four
So I had to turn and turn again
I’ve got a long walk back
To the Bamford Quaker House
Where I am staying, already
I am over six thousand steps
And that’s just with the getting here
Let alone that tricky trek home
We are inquisitive
The human race
Women more than men
Yes I think so
But there again
In case
You had not noticed
I am a man
So there I was
On the footpath
Along the bank
Of Ladybower reservoir
And to my knowledge
But please do correct me
There is no Lord Bower
Other than my old friend John
Who died
Quite possibly of alcohol poisoning
With that I say goodbye
And welcome to my mother
And so we walked
Those narrow, winding
Scilly isles lanes
On that Sunday afternoon
Which was bright
And dull
In equal measure
You could have skipped
Though I don’t suppose
This was a time
For skipping
Almost surreal really
That we walk in peace
As we part, similarly
Am I a working poet
Or a very lazy writer
Am I the one who saw it
Or simply another inscriber
Am I the truth that sends
Or the pretending aristocrat
Who fears all that defends
The status quo in his purple hat
Am I the nearly man
Or one leaning to the left
Am I with the gypsy caravan
Or once more sadly bereft
Am I the artist on tour
Or the working man’s retiree
Am I the epitome of the poor
Or seeker disguised as visionary
The road is carved
Into the hillside
Down in the valley bottom
A river flows and sparkles
People walk
Cyclists cycle
Motor bike riders gather
Perhaps for an outing
Today there is the first frost
Of my latest autumn
I take a photograph
Of the silver grasslands
Now I am in the poolside café
Listening to the joyful conversation
Of two middle aged men
In their lycra and so so special shoes
On the wall a long photograph
Of a local climbing attraction
On the counter, flapjack, of all kinds
Is the main offering of the day
Down the road
Across from the garage
Huge piles of crushed stone
Overgrown now
I remember it as a public house
The Marquis of Granby
It was a stopover
For our coach
One Friday night
On the way to Sheffield
Philip Brammall
Steve Clough
Gene Marston
Perhaps my younger brother Leslie
They were there
Making merry
Acting daft
What lads do
On the way to growing up
Bright light
On the glass window
Blue sky
Above the green trees
This is idyllic
Tell don’t show
Strong breeze
Sways branches
Clouds cross small window
Rapidly to bring dullness
You trick me by saying
Let’s call this wonder
She raised her eyebrows
Spoke in that condescending style
Which suggests she has the authority
But more than by simply being
Posture, upbringing and mental strength
Gift her this delightful sublime appearance
Next time it will be the dhal
Or rather the Maharashtran dhal
Which conforms her place presently
Men are in charge, in restaurant, shop and café
Perhaps they are personally chosen
Or maybe it is a nod to their societal background
