CLOUDS HILL

Whenever he was away
Lawrence pined for Clouds Hill more than any other place on earth.
He'd wanted a snapshot, taken in summer
when the rhododendrons were in bloom.
And he'd longed to share it's tranquility with Auda Abu Tay,
his closest friend, who had introduced him
to a myriad of Middle Eastern culinary delights, as they'd sat together
watching the sun set over the desert's vastness.
He had taught Auda warcraft - and taught him well.
It was so good to be with him, there at the oasis.
But he still couldn't help wishing to be back home...

And, now, here they finally were.
Arriving in the dark small hours, both in Arabic dress,
with Lawrence carrying a jar of sand as a momento,
and goats cheese, and his camel's harness in a hessian bag.
And it is like being in Paradise: introducing Auda
to his hidden retreat from the world, to his few close friends -
laying on an informal party in Auda's honour, relaxing again,
and lying in until well past noon...

But the old restlessness possesses him once again.
So he does what he has always done
when he needs to process his thoughts -
takes his beloved Brough Superior for a spin
along the twisting Dorset lanes: pushing,
pushing her to her ultimate limits - topping
eighty, ninety, one hundred...

There is no advance warning.
No horrified shouts in Arabic or English,
just two errand boys on bicycles.
No time to think, only
a screeching of tyres as the Brough upends,
followed by a pink explosion of rhododendrons.
And the hands of time stand still.