'Distant Lands' by Roger Woodcock
The bridge is busier now, horse-drawn carriages competing with the new-fangled motor vehicle.
We met on this bridge, I was taking my employer`s child for a breath of air, he was scurrying to work at the town`s bank. I still do not know whose fault it was, the clash of bodies, the doffing of a hat, the profuse apologise.
When work allowed we met once a week in a little café, or in the park. He talked of becoming a manager, I of travelling with my employer to distant lands. Then we would part, he to his parent`s home, me to my little attic room.
It was a month before we kissed, awkward and fumbling beneath the park`s great oak. He said he was going to enlist, told me it was his duty to help fight the dastardly Hun. We booked a room in an hotel overlooking the bridge and made love in the long, sunny afternoon.
I am in that room now, slashes of rain blurring my view from the tiny window. Strange how I can still sense his presence, smell his manly odour, feel the curl of hair upon his chest. The telegram his mother showed me had been perfunctory, `We regret to inform…`
I move from the window and begin to pack. It is the same every summer, a stroll in the park, a cream tea in one of the town`s cafes. Maybe next year I will take that cruise to those far off lands. Maybe.