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One Bench Along The Way



He was called Steve:
Or so he said when we met one very cold
Bleak October morning
In that grey-stoned Cumbrian town,
He, Northbound, while I was traveling
South.

I passed the bench where he sat on his bag
And we knew each other immediately:
The beard, the many layers of clothes,
The slightly dirty hands,
The boots, the sun-touched wearied face.

So I sat to idle away a few
Of those hours which - often more than rain -
Were an enemy
Of ours.
He offered smokes, a drink of Brandy
And I - some bread.

Warm again - for a while -
We spoke as friends unmet in some time:
He of a place nearby where a fire could be lit,
Of a shop selling cheap food,
Of recent travels
And how last Winter near Morecombe Bay
He had collapsed, from cold.
And I, I spoke of one week's work waiting somewhere, South,
Of how Summer days walking roads had tired me,
And how bin-bags are useful wrapped around the legs
At night.

It was good, cheering, to spend those hours talking
While people passed,
Some staring:
Our world the bench where we sat, the shelter of the night before
When frost broke our sleep into short and shorter spells
And left us huddled, tired,
With only a walk - or Rum or Brandy -
To warm us.

There is no Sun, here, now,
No dreams, and - the Brandy gone -
We parted, quite happy then within our wandering, homeless, world:
He, to fetch more warming spirits,
I to begin one more journey, South.



DW Myatt

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