A WEEKEND AWAY

Once,

On a storm-swept Welsh summers night,
Behind the paint peeled panels of a caravan door,
He spoke to her in a soft whispered voice,
While a basin strategically place on the floor,
Collected the raindrops which found their way through
Till the dark clouded sky split with the blue
Of laser-like beams that coloured the dawn
And painted the hills a pale pastel hue.

When,

The last wisps of morning had cleared from the land,
And the entire world slept, indulging a whim,
Soft breeze tussled they strolled the sea strand,
The sun glistening gold against their white skin,
While she, first oblivious to what she invited,
Then realised the effect she had upon him
As she felt herself burn in the fire of his smile
And the heat in his eyes, which she had ignited.

Then,

In a crowded carriage to the clickerty-clack
Of the railway track, she sat,
Lost in the thoughts of that which had passed,
She pondered on life and how it unfolds
Watching the trees and the telegraph poles
Reflecting across the NO SMOKING sign,
Knowing that nothing can be set back in time,
She turned from the window and breathed in a sigh.

But,

What of Ron, the pork butcher's son?
He too had suggested a weekend away,
Searching for fossils on Salisbury Plain.
Would going with him have been so much fun?
And now would she still be feeling the same?
She considered it all in the cold light of day.
And though scraping at rocks is not where she's at
It had to be better than Wales with this prat.

?Copyright Paul Holmes 2001