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October 22, 2016



and two or three

or maybe four,

passed by this way

in days of yore.


Some stopping off

as travellers do.

To re-fuel tanks

before saying adieu.


and five or six

or seven more,

in intervals

knocked at the door.


Some getting in

as travellers do,

unless ‘No vacancy’

sign on view.


and eight or nine

or even ten;

all sad and lonely

weary men.


Some spinning yarns

as travellers do,

whilst selling wares-

rest overdue.


and eleven or twelve

or memorable thirteen,

down on his luck,

without a bean.


Some sob story given

as travellers do –

A bed in the shed

where rhubarb grew.


and fourteen or fifteen

and sixteen, I recall.

Arriving with two trunks

dropped in the hall.


Some magician of sorts,

he said, was he,

with an able assistant –

as fit as a flee.


and seventeen or eighteen

or nineteen, I did greet,

feeling it was time,

to put up my feet.


Some rest needed

from the hotel lark.

Time had taken it’s toll –

I was losing my spark.


Good job that twenty’s key,

fitted like it should:

Home Sweet Home, a blessing;

returning back for good.


Some loving comfort needed;

his timing spot on.

The door firmly bolted

now we two back as one.



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