Poem: Lunch with a view

As good a place as any to stop for lunch -
the shelter of trees, a view of the tracks,
and today the air still as a well-kept secret.

But you couldn't finsh that last chestnut?
Was it the whistle and rumble of the London train?
A walker and her dog stomping over the bridge?

We dream of unfinished things, what we leave
behind, the could have beens. November, not long
now before that perfect balance of light and dark.