In days gone by, a bridle track
ran past the place where we were wed.
Reflective moments take me back
to this idyll -- a watershed.

My heart recalls our Wiltshire lane
at break of day. I loved that place.
I walk it in my mind again.
An early dew on Queen Anne Lace

reflects the sun's candescent light.
Haphazard leggy stalks now stretch
above the verge of fading night,
their fragile hoods of purple vetch

like butterflies, while down beneath,
the speedwell shyly hides its flowers,
from all but knowing eyes. Its wreath
of blue lies soft in mossy bowers.

A scent of hawthorn fills the air.
The finch chirrups his cheerful song,
a fleeting tune. He pauses here,
upon a catkin twig - then gone.

The sun now bathes the fescue field,
with buttercup and dandelion,
that guards the boundary of the weald,
which lies beyond. I have my eye on

the margin of this pheasant wood,
a mile or so from Castle Combe,
where Max let slip he'd seen some good
morels that grew in umber loam.

I covet them, though when first seen
their conic brains most surely must
defy all thoughts of haute cuisine;
their convolutions cause disgust.

When thinly sliced and seared with heat,
in butter from the Jersey herd,
there is no finer fungal treat,
not even truffles! Mark my word!

We cut a few but leave the rest
for others yet to come, with whom
we share this hamlet, heaven-blest,
for greed, I fear, is friendship's doom.

The friends we made in those far days
remain with us down through the years.
Some now are dead, but friendship stays
in memory... and private tears.