Three lives collide
at the crossroads. Two young men,
both in a hurry. And I’m the witness,
dragged from my usual unravelling reverie.
It’s not what you might think.
The suddenness of his appearing
doesn’t shock. Of course, we see him,
the runner not in running gear,
pale hair stuck to his cheeks,
his breath syncopating with the slap
of every downhill step. I do not notice
if his eyes are particularly wild.
The other young man’s getting out the car
just as he passes, but the runner doesn’t miss a beat:
‘Jesus loves you, mate’. And on he runs.
The other young man mutters ‘nutter’.
Locks the car and hurries off.
Well, what would you do?
I walk on. Over the darkening tarmac
there are myriad golden comet trails
scattered by Scots pines,
and the scent of crushed yew berries is for once
© Marion Adams 2016