Some meetings are more memorable than others. Some are even worthy of a poem:

Deep in the Welsh mountains where revellers reeled,

We met in a rowdy and colourful field,

In a white Stetson hat, beside me he kneeled,

He was hunting for treasure, I was too, it was sealed.

While we danced to a fiddle, dogs barked and kids squealed,

Clasping hands like lost lovers in circles we wheeled,

Then breathless and dizzy, flopped down to get high,

We lay in long grasses and laughed at the sky.

For the first time in months I felt ready to fly,

With this man in the Stetson with bright smiling eyes.

He told me his name and I told him a story,

We both knew the game and were playing for glory,

The touch of an arm, the sweep of a hand,

A festival tune sounding better than planned,

Our warm dusty bodies inching closer together,

Put under a spell by the white twirling feathers,

And the satin soft closeness of mid-summer weather

It was then he revealed he was tied to another.

Temptation spoke sweet under night’s heavy cover,

That no-one would know, just this once, just one lover,

It whispered of pleasures untold to discover,

Of one night’s romance played out undercover

But resisting the lure, we pulled back from each other

To fail would mean hurt from which none would recover,

Memories turned black, lurking guilty forever,

So caging our lust, knowing all touch much be severed,

We jigged, and we joked and we joined the folk song,

Cast desire to one side and re-entered the throng.

He said we were old friends who’d only just met,

For one night of magic the stage had been set,

This man in the Stetson, I’d not soon forget,

So pleased I could leave him without a regret.

As the moon continued its lonely ascent,

I sent him still faithful back to his tent,

With unquenched longing the night had to end,

So we parted in honour as newfound old friends.

Our morals intact, I thought, well, that’s that,

My night with the man in the white Stetson hat.