The drive down was a nightmare.
It was my father's car
But my brother drove with me beside him,
The owner of the car sat in the back
Though leant forward between the seats,
Fidgeting, picking at the way the car was driven.
Not being in control for but an hour
He hated every minute of it.
Arriving, we walked at his pace down the village street
And found the heavy wooden gates to the yard shut.
Ignoring the closed sign he knocked loudly
And was answered by a tall man with silver hair.
Father asked to look round
And something passed between their eyes
Which made the man say yes.
Walking amongst those brightly painted Gypsy wagons,
My father spoke his name at which they shook hands.
So then we four sat in the cool of a summer's evening
On the porch of an old timber cabin
And drank tea from ornately painted bowls.
When we left, the man gave me a painted walking stick;
Its handle the carved head of a waterfowl.
Though they only met once I later learned
That they had corresponded for thirty years.
The man's yard and his breed are no more
But I'll never forget the magical way of life
Of which I had but a brief glimpse.