Found

I came upon a blue hut
And sat beneath its window
Upon this slice of a log

A Potter’s studio
Or a writer's place of solitude
With a stand-up desk

Outdoors the grass is untended
A roll of chicken wire
Lays moribund, in the centre

Of the five metres square patch
Of rural roughness, on its way back
To nature, freed of mankind's nurture

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Happened

In the dream you wished me well
Sent me off to my work
With a hug and a wave

That is after I had cleared out
All of the rubbish
From the old Ford Mondeo

You talked of parks
And ponds
Your day ahead

Almost exactly
As it was
Those twenty-eight years ago

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Eventful

Where might those
Together afternoons
Have gone to

Would the colours
Have faded in the
Twice-weekly wash

Where might those
Tricky love words
Have moved on to

Would the essences
Have frayed, in the
Twice-yearly exposure

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Wishful

There is a modernist in me
Or at least a soul
Who looks out for good quality

Which is then named as neat
Or right, or appropriate
Or correct, or well placed

He, as himself might care to be
Named by those self-same words
Particularly well placed

Instead he halfway tells us
Of an old love story
Which didn’t run its course

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Describe

The rug is blue
With a wide orange border

Part in shadow
Part in bright sunlight

The two settees
And three armchairs

Are placed with their backs
Against the common room walls

The floor is wooden
A long way from its best

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