Home About Contact

Return to poetry index

Next (right) Previous (left)

The girl with bobbing hair

The girl with bobbing hair so blonde
Jogs past on the trail running free
Every Sunday, always early.
She smiles, nods and is always on
Her own, with no dog for safety.
Theirs, are they for security?
What here, in glorious Devon?

If that’s so, it’s a sad slur on
The state of our tourist county.
Or are they just for company?
Single men you see are common;
Who is that lurking in those trees?
I’d buy her a faithful puppy;
But she smiles, says hi, and runs on.

© RM Meyer
Winswell Water, January-February 2021