Norton bridge

                             My grandmother scolded me,

              As I curiously opened the cupboard

               Of the gentleman farmers 

                     Armoury-

                Caressing the doubled barrelled

              Shotguns like a young cowboy- 

             This was the manners of the town,  

             That she severely reminded me of.

             Here, guns are a mans ritual.



             And later- driving home 

             To the station, on the lonely  
               
             Winding, hilly road.

              The car lights illuminating 

             The landscape, light and dark-
             
             In wide arches

            As in a theatre,( a stage that no rabbit

            Or hare should step into - 

            
            Nor corn-field either.) 

                      

            Waiting for the dark platform


           The multi-mirrored lantern 

            Of the time-stilled station,

           Reflecting my dreams.  

          The arcs of the car lights 

          Upon the hillside etched  
          
          Deep into my young mind,

          That would become -

          A memory.