Sharp-angled sunshine catches up with us
On Hay Bluff, racing over bracken bent
By showers stacking up against the dark
And brooding layers of the Black Mountains.
My boy and I we laugh along the ridge,
Gaze across the peak of Lord Hereford’s Knob,
And giggle at the future insults we will trade.

We slide down mossy slopes on green-stained arses.
A pair of red kites, picked out by low light
Skate across the fawn, heather-line of landscape.
We stroll the last few miles down to the car
Elbows and shoulders bump happily into each other.
And later, after cafe doughnuts and hot chocolate
We eavesdrop into Hay-on-Wye at soft twilight.
Yellow-lit windows, cold stone-air and mouldy books.
Boden-London families, Barber-clad old men,
Carved pumpkins and candles, shining shops
A touch of otherworldliness, as he
Weighs a fountain pen he likes the look of,
In the new old-fashioned stationers.

And walking to the car he holds my hand
Although he knows he’s too old, we smile together.
A day shared. In the car he blasts the heating,
Teases me at something I said, and all the way home
I become Lord Hereford for the day.