THE OXFORD BYPASS

This is something I don’t think of
Very often, but years ago I stopped
At the services on the Oxford by-pass,
And all tables occupied, tray in hand,
I looked round for somewhere safe to sit
And saw a man by himself, contented
Or self-contained he seemed to me—
So very discontented then. He met
With kindness my request to join him,
A lorry-driver, and we sat, and talked,
And though I don’t recall what we talked of
He seemed to understand what I was
And looked upon me with compassion
Unspoken goodness in his every word,
And when he got up to go, said something
Quite simple, nothing more so I remember
Than wishing me well when I went on my way,
And I took it as a blessing, not for that day
Only, but on all my time; and surprised
To feel such simple words so deeply said,
There I sat awhile, almost in another world.
And as I left, absurd and mystical as it sounds,
Perhaps thinking of Langland’s ploughman
Something in me said, not flinching at the name,
Could that be Him? Who else? I replied,
Or how else could he again be with us
But in such a man? Briefly then I knew
I had to find him, wake from my strange dream
And if I could, follow him. But he was gone,
No name nor place, no firm nor phone,
Nothing left with which to trace him. This
All happened so long ago, that were we
To meet once more – what have I become
O what have I become? – I would not know him
Nor could he now look on me with kindness.