Fragments And Reflections

A Woman At A Country Inn

‎I watched her enter as we drove by,

blonde-haired and slight and happy,

a small dog yapping at her heels,

comfortably clothed, her slim hands

confident on a heavy, black door.

Despite the weary August sun,

this one last heave of summer,

I thought of first frosts and sloes,

and late morning fires,

of a cheery, ruddy barman

and the lingering scents of autumn

mingling with‎ warm notes of 

old beer and wood smoke. 

I wondered how we'd spend an hour.

Fond talk of woodland walks?

Of churchyards and lost orchards?

Of times gone by and times to come?

I will never know her voice,

or even see her one more time.

Yet this roadside, momentary tableau,

of a woman at a country inn,

stirs longing for the quiet unknown,

prompts melancholy at small things fled:

dark humours dulling sense and lust

that seep between my days,

causing empty hours to moulder

and me think to think of 

all I said I'd do and be,

but which now seems slight

and tired and far away on the

slowly darkening horizon.