Walking back through the cafe yesterday evening Anne called me over and said someone had left me a note. I assumed she was mistaking me for someone else, but the note was indeed for me.
It was from a woman to whom I had read some of my poems. She and I sat together on a bench in the garden, in the warm sunshine and shared words I had written. We spent quite a while discussing my poem Holes, which seemed to have a special resonance for her.
The note was handwritten in black biro and reads as follows:
For Sue, with thanks. A lovely experience.
A chance meeting amongst the ancient trees,
And in the warm sun, having her words
Of long-dead men doing their duty.
Her gentle spoken words and those
On the cold white paper
Rekindled the fragile flames of those
Whom cruel chance extinguished.
To me Sybil’s note feels like a gift. I’m richer for it and for the encounter it recounts.