Overheard in on Sled Lane in Winter

Treading cautiously downhill,
on snow, sludge 
and ice, 
slipping slightly, 

I saw two worn men,
their heads bent toward each other,
strict Covid-metres apart: 
creased brows confiding feelings, 
bald heads, carelessly exposed.

They saw me. 
Nodded, smiled and said hello
in that old-fashioned, courteous way. 
I returned their greetings, passed by, 
heard drifting skeleton-words, 
she was so good to me, when Margaret went. 

Was Margaret his wife?

Was she a friend, lover, neighbour, daughter, 
sister, doctor, carer? Supermarket cashier?

Sparse clues cued my thoughts 
to loss and comfort,
pain and kindness: 

life.

In that country lane, 
three pairs of eyes brimmed,
red-rimmed by cold winds and warm thoughts:
connections, like mycelium, running underground.

Ode to My Pencil Oh, leaded pencil, with your scarlet rubber tip held securely in the grasp of your patterned metal shaft. I found you on a woodland floor…