"It never rains in Santa Fe," she said,
Regarding the water streaking down
The café window with disdain.
"This time next year, I'll be there;
Wearing shades and drinking fruit juice,
While you'll be stuck in wet old England."

For me, it was just a name that
Went with Atchison and Topeka;
The sort of exotic sounding moniker
Dreamed up to romanticise the rails.
I never thought of anyone living there.

She stood up, and took our drained mugs
Back to the mottled counter as
I fumbled under the table for my umbrella.

We thanked the proprietor, then took
Respective deep breaths as she opened
The door that had protected us
From the lashing rain.

We refused to let the drumming above
Our heads interrupt our conversation
As we resigned ourselves to a soggy journey.
The emerald brilliance of the freshened leaves
Glinted in our eyes as we imagined these miles
As part of a pilgrimage from the days of Chaucer.

Our immediate destination was known,
But her words returned inevitably to
Her personal Canterbury; the strange and
Distant city that would be the vessel
Of her hope.

I told her that I would miss the seasons,
And she said she had far bigger
Imponderables to concern her than mere weather.
Mostly I need to focus on small things
To keep me from trying to solve
Impossible puzzles. That is why I chose
Not to believe her meteorological statement.

Someday I may discover the truth about
This place that has attained legendary
Status in my mind, but secretly I hope
That I can preserve it as another vital link
To the ashes of my imagination.

02/12/2007

Posted on 04/14/2007
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince