POSTSCRIPT

There’s a low watery sun trying to sneak in through
The kitchen window. The leaves on the trees have gone.
Last night I lay in bed and skipped through a shuffled
Pack of memories. A Glaswegian Thatcherite who
Berated Pinochet in an Irish pub. The
General’s lookalike, staring as a girl called Paula
Talked shyly to camera. The dynamite orphan,
Blowing up a storm. A bottle of Bolivian
Rum fuelling analysis of the noble sport
Of cheese-rolling. An old man with no teeth
Sitting on the floor of the bus. All poems that
Will go unwritten, not to mention the others
Which took place on the other side of the road, slipped
By incognito, were never even noticed.

My memory settled on Seong When, whose name
I could never pronounce. Who took Pantanal eggs
Home to become Korean chickens. Who drank cans
Of beer until realising that ‘beer no good’
To beat the heat. When I asked why a monk should be
So alone in Brazil, beyond the Temple and
His daily eight hours of meditation, he told
Me straight: ‘Travel is a good educator’.