We recognise each other at the same time –
Mr Fleet, my old geography teacher. He says
Time flies and our names come to each other
like a mnemonic, decades since we last met.
He’s dressed for the weather, with binoculars,
but he’ll not see a rarer bird on his walk than me.
He fires off big questions like I’m in an exam,
keen to map the battlefield of my adult life.
He wants to talk more but I’m not sure
I’ve passed the test and his waiting wife
is used to this sort of thing, the once bright
meeting him dulled, and she’s keen to get on.
