In other people’s rooms on other days.
Where your red coat hangs, in the hall,
still wet from yesterday’s rain.
Look, outside the window,
grey Devon persists, longing.
Go out now, despite the cold wind’s spite.
An attempt to clear the jetlagged hung-over dullness.
Away from bland morning television.
Just stroll aimlessly down, past the green grey church.
On the corner, alongside the co-op,
their faded message boards of last month’s prayers,
and tomorrow’s dreams, are uninviting, but apt.
They remain, happily-unhappily alone, like you.
Though the buildings themselves were lovely.
To find by chance a new old path,
takes you down through crouched houses.
Shunned second-home havens.
Down a muddy brambled lane.
To the estuary, storm sheltered,
with boathouse woods and briars.
Alone along a lamp lit path,
to the water’s edge.
Promenade to the pub,
where later friends, talk, and falling
were to prove as easy as the beers.
A chance turn, and a climb above,
led me back to other people’s rooms,
where your red coat still hangs in the hall.
Follow