Fifty friendship years ré-quire
a two hundred mile trip north to celebrate.
Wet trees glisten
in a November garden, below a river flows full flood
down from Rosedale, from the secret
moors, and kingfishers fire past.
River, trees, kingfishers – all of it
been doing this living stuff
for aeons, more even: O
a mere yesterday, an inattentive glance
at the clock. We were, back then, just boys yet
thought was done
and life – the real thing – was come …
A feast at The Star Inn, near Helmsley
and P presented me
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