(photos from 1989… the day we left for our European adventure, I’m on the left with a giant fringe, S is on the right wearing the most awful shorts)
A Time To Talk (by Robert Frost)
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don’t stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven’t hoed,
And shout from where I am, ‘What is it?’
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.