As I had time to kill I explored a lane above the town

Apart from a number of farmhouses not much remained to suggest that this was a farming lane

Which was once of a great importance to the town

I found a seat at the fork of the lane and rested there for a while

Spring had certainly arrived in the area and the trees and early flowers were bursting with energy

But I felt unmoved as my wife had announced that morning that she was leaving me for a book of poetry

I felt no jealousy towards the slim volume of verse although I thought it had taken advantage of a situation

That had not existed outside of our marriage

In certain ways I was quite fond of the poems that had been collected

They were various and some showed a great insight into the human condition

This was the reason in my view why the poet killed himself and left his poems so alone

I was told that I was insensitive to the pain that had been experienced by the book of poems and the only walls that I cared about were those of my own construction

My wife might have been right as I knew that I was tired and with this fatigue came blindness

The lane is almost idle in the Spring sunshine and nobody apart from a postman has passed me in over an hour

I thought that the postman was going to join me for a chat but he just handed me a letter from a farmer which said that he hoped that I was enjoying my rest on the seat which had been provided by the town for weary travellers

Although I was aware of the history of the lane the farmer further noted that at its easternmost point the lane became very narrow and was really no more than a yellow alley which led rather obscurely into the town

But it was rich in pigeons

So there was always hope