I come towards the corner

I come towards the corner

But don’t sit in the corner

After all

It is the time for a new beginning

Yet still with black Americano

Instantly I think back

To more than fifty years ago

When girls and boys would be girls and boys

Always, to think well of oneself

Yet of course, altogether desperately uncertain

Would she really want to go out with me

What kind of a life had I to offer

Yet what a life it’s been, so far

No, there hasn’t been a constant companion

But sufficient dangerous liaisons

To bring fervent touches of spice and colour

New opportunities to discover now

Away from the seats on the sidelines

New eyes to be re-opened

Once the cataracts are removed

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The *>*>* is not a good look

The *>*>* is not a good look

Even for a stick insect

With magnificent eyes

The walnut cake

Is chock full of sugar

I didn’t expect that

The coffee though

Is spot on

Certainly a prime flavour

Unfortunately

The crystalline

Is already coursing through the veins

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Along the line

Along the line

Of the silent windmills

Twenty-four in all

North to south

Flight hill

Is this a portent

Can you still hear me

Do you still listen

Would you care

If you could

Should I worry

Either way

Well of course

It would be rude not to

Isn’t that the whole point

Of our being together

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I ought to be more methodical

I ought to be more methodical

Draw up lists of pros and cons

Perhaps even create a ratings system

I’ve done that in the past

For now Green Lane ticks the boxes

Quiet, rural, good internet

A café (this one) round the corner

A bucketload of past connections

But is it a good thing

Or even sensible, to return

To a place of your crucial years

Where once you fell off Jack’s motorbike

That last bit is absolutely true

I just couldn’t get around the corners

During my try-out ride

On the Moto Guzzi, or was it the MZ contraption

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I am in the Carding Shed Café

I am in the Carding Shed Café

At Washpit Mills, Holmfirth

I have just viewed and made an offer

To rent a flat in the old yarn store

My mother worked on the looms

And I drove a fork truck full of bobbins

In my school holidays

Now it’s a vintage car museum, sort of

There is a sign in the corner

Which points to Cartworth Moor

Which is where in will go next

Also it is where, as a youth, I played cricket

Is it nostalgia that draws me

Am I just another old romantic

This might not be the end of my viewings

But at least I’ve made a start

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