On the Towpath
His face, a cider apple, pipped
with one brown tooth, he stopped his bike to chat.
His eyes were ageless summer, innocent
of irony or stress.
He told me how as a lad he nodded off
in the heat but his horse knew what to do,
turning at each corner of the field
to plough the diminishing square.
I made a comment on the weather,
conscious that I owed him something more
and inched myself away.
A privet hedge
returned me to the times, a polished car
protruding its suburban snout.