On nodding terms at the bus stop,

I saw the flowers in his hands,

fading quickly but revitalised in part

by the expensive looking

bottle of labelled perfume

stranded in agony, almost strangled

and choked back as he explained

he was returning them, having cancelled

the holiday,

the short trip away.

Straying off the subject

so not to cause to distress,

I asked him about his life

on the farm up in the North, surrounded by trees

and the fruits of summer, the cold chill

falling with ease as he recalled taking pot

shots at moving objects,

I worried for the sake

of a possible shot-gun wedding.

Ian D. Hall 2016