In the morning
I drove to Brecon,
the Beacons peaking,
mulberry fogged and bearded,
the grey wisp of a winter’s day.
Later, in Ludlow,
the poignant bliss of visiting old friends,
not seen for a decade
The following day
I set out for Swansea.
Traffic was light,
plum and purple colours settled ablaze
over ploughed fields
and washed the feather tops of poplars.
Time flies, the hours, the days.
Sometimes, chance meetings take place,
Mostly, we pass on our apologies.
All too often,
just once per year,
“So very sorry we haven’t met,
take care, and
wishing good cheer.”
I am reminded that
like misty mornings maybe,
blink, shiver, and then
(should we fail to take notice)
This poem is dedicated to Mr Bateman.