Poplar Trees, dryads, dreamy Wareham

Whenever I see a Poplar tree, I stand still for a few moments - I am beguiled - I think - how beautiful they are - 

Now I am retired, I can pause for more than a few nervy moments - I no longer scurry about, clutching a shiny report to my lapels - my eyes are no longer scaled with care - there are no clever voices to listen out for -

I sit, with my skinny cappuccino, in The Old Granary - I might snarf a fresh blueberry muffin - I will unfold my crisp newspaper, bought in Farwells - the river is absolutely still, tide just about to turn, silky and dark - the calm sleepy town is a perfect location for day dreaming, for forgetting troubles -

Across the river, I can see not one, but a number of Poplar trees - two rows of them, slender, with bare shapely branches - they stand in a small meadow, next to the bridge -

These Poplar trees have always caught my eye - in the summer, their leaves shimmer with light - they mark the entrance to a delicate world -

Perhaps one evening, when the river flows out of a dream, I will see a gang of slender girls - they will steal out of the meadow, slipping off their costume of bark and leaves, to stand upon the river bank -

I will hear the disturbing music of pan flutes - the bus to Swanage, passing over the bridge, is filled with heroes - bright vines cling to its coachwork - a huge moon glimmers just above the water -

My copy of The Independent turns into smoke -