A snail who every working day
covered 100 metres, say,
(a rate of progress I believe,
with annual and other leave,
and lunch and every other perk
due to a gastropod in work,
eight inches every working hour,
to be within the creature’s power[1]),
from Judd and Euston[2], crawling East
and North, were it a lucky beast,
surviving river, road and rail
as might a well-briefed, focussed snail,
avoiding foot-fall, tyre and beak….
this animal of which I speak
could manage over a decade
the equal Odyssey I’ve made
to where, between the breck[3] and fen[4],
I stroke the cat[5], and hold my pen,
and dedicate this verse to one
who, shortly after I’d begun
my journey, (with no end in view
but, somehow, somewhere, winning through),
sat by the Thames, programme in hand.
waiting the entrance of the band,
was introduced by mutual friends
to one who, when the concert ends,
completely unaware of fate,
had got a promise for a date.

Which time our fancied mollusc trek
one tenth the way from Wen to breck
would have arrived – let’s see -  as far
at Epping, after Theydon Bois,
and on the bridge between have raised
stalked eyes, and back and forward gazed –
while underneath the traffic flowed
incessantly around that road –
astonished at how far s/he’s[6] crawled
and, just a little bit appalled
at what s/he’s left, a moment grieved,
but then, excited and relieved,
hears the horizon’s siren-song
and knows her instinct isn’t wrong.

So I would sometimes, smiling, feel
my new home’s walls to know them real,
and real the sense of hope that made
me, unaccustomed, unafraid
as I prepared my life for you
to ring its bell (the flowers new,
the larder stocked, the wine uncorked).

And how we talked, and talked, and talked,
and loved, and loved, and loved as well,
a better pen than mine might tell,
but talk and talk we did, till May
gave – memorably sweetly[7] – way
to June of amorous delights,
uncomplicated days and nights,
when each, together or apart
(as often), learned the other’s heart.

Just so, our doughty mollusc’s hours
are passed amongst the fields and flowers
of rude and happy Essex: here
s/he starts her second journey-year,
where gentle Northern Downs descend,
past Shelley, Dunmow, Oxen End;

But now, amongst the grass and furze,
something untoward occurs:
the gastropod is seized by doubt,
can’t think what this has been about,
feels, with a sudden sense of dread,
uncertain of the road ahead:
between two fields of towering crops
she falters, dithers, slows and stops;
the field seems endless, and the sky
above the wheat, remote and high,
gives no encouragement….and thrush
and blackbird lurk in every bush….

Just so, when I’d persuaded you
that “Passing Fancy” wouldn’t do,
and “Summer Fling”, as summer passed
was clearly not a name to last,
and, finding that I couldn’t bear
(although, God knows, I tried!) to share,
I asked for exclusivity,
you answered: “Yes – if you’ll agree
to permanence.” I blanched. How choose?
For which was win, and which was loose?
Which way was forward, which was back?
Which Faeries’ kiss? Which Furies’ pack?
Which greater joy, profounder pain,
more bitter loss, or sweeter gain?

Then, at decision’s giddy edge
stood[8], like that mollusc in the hedge,
mapless, compassless and lost,
I took a breath and – damn the cost:
how could I bear to part from you? –
I closed my eyes…and jumped[9]…and flew[10]!

And so, direction repossessed
our snail continues on her quest
and finds her appetite for road
is heightened by this episode:
each inch before had seemed so long,
but now flows past her sweet as song
and the horizon, that had seemed
so far, is nearer than she dreamed –
too near: for though she knows she might,
one day, embrace that last goodnight,
for now, each inch, each hand-breadth, holds delight.

So I – So we, together, set
our course to where, beyond the Thet[11],
your cottage, garden, apple tree
so generously welcomed me,
an unaspiring bureaucrat -
a terrace, pond, gazebo, cat
whose epitaph I gave you, etched[12] -
about the time our mollusc, stretched
but happy (as am I with you),

To be continued…………..