There is an ancient Coaching Inn just down the road... not far away,
where, when we were so much younger; folk songs we would sing and play.
I sometimes go there to remember friends from long forgotten days...
but now, it is a trendy Wine-bar; full of posers...oh, so fey.

I bumped into a memory last week, whilst sitting quietly
with a glass of Pinot Noir; a ghost of mine, of rare beauty...
almost as close as lovers, but sadly... that was not to be;
Trish and I grew from our childhoods, happy in our company.

One day, out in the Water-meadows, hunting frogs... as children do;
she looked at me so solemnly, with those big eyes... so cornflower blue.
She said, 'When we grow up, I think that I would like to marry you'...
childhood dreams, you hope may happen... but, so rarely ever do.

So we played those songs of old; my Twelve-string, and her golden song.
Her voice... clear as a frosty morning; three full octaves she could span.
And soon, like moths around a flame... her Court of spotty youths began
to gather;
then one night, mid-song... there suddenly, appeared...
The Man.

Expensive suit and Filofax... a Talent Scout from far away,
seeking out the ancient Inn, from where... he'd heard some people say,
there was a girl with golden voice, who sang her songs exquisitely;
he watched her sing, and then agreed... he'd sign her up, without delay.

Trish looked at us; her blue eyes wide... excited, but... a hint unsure;
we said, 'You mustn't turn this down... a chance like this, you've waited for;
and it may not come round again'...
her eyes swept round us, just once more;
a kiss all round... 'Be seeing you'...
Trish and The Man walked out the door.

That was the night the music died in that old Inn just down the road;
all you hear is Muzak now; sterile... boring... tedious... cold.
Now Trish had gone; the folk-song nights began to fade... began to fold,
until the landlord called a halt... for far less beer, these days, was sold.

So, we all went our separate ways; no more to sing the night away;
the old Twelve-string back in its case... forgotten... no more songs to play.
Trish became a famous Star... in the Limelight... on display;
they changed her name... they always do...
to what...
I feel I shouldn't say.

Sitting quietly, sipping wine, watching all these chattering Feys,
reminiscing all the good times... songs and laughter, years away.
Friends now gone, some... quite forgotten, some remembered wistfully...
That's Trish, of course... as you have guessed;
I wonder where she is today?

In Paris, Rome; The French Riviera... on location in the sun?
Shooting yet another Movie?... Hot Box Office, every one.
Such success... the Midas Touch; with everything she's ever done...
but, then... we're talking of our Trish; so talented... so full of fun.

As I mused, the Inn door opened; the chattering stopped, in hushed surprise;
they stepped inside... two men in suits; both of monumental size.
Each wearing small transceiver headsets... checking out... what?
I surmise... security?
They scanned the room with icy-cold, reptilian eyes.

Standing there; a vast beef wall; the Feys... no concept what to do;
to run... to hide? Then, through the door she came; flanked by another two
huge goons...
She glanced around; slipped back her Dior shades... eyes... deepest blue...
like cornflowers in a summer meadow, then...
'Oh, is it really you?

She pushed aside her minders, strode across the room to where I sat;
'Hello, Trish' I softly said; 'Oh, Lord', she said, 'Don't call me that...
not in public, anyway; just use my stage name, as we chat'
'Oh, come on, Trish... don't you think these posers haven't smelt a rat?'

The Big Film Star... the local bloke... with four huge minders standing guard.
They know that we're old friends; to work that out... it really isn't hard;
but... what brings you right out here?...
you couldn't call us avante-garde!
There's not much left of what you knew...
it's quieter than an old Graveyard.'

'We're on location, down the road, the big old house across the Vale...'
'So, tell me, Trish, about the films...'
'Oh, Lord' she said, 'Now there's a tale.
My record boss's brother's Mistress owned a Studio in Wales,
and she arranged a screen test, which I passed... then, I was up for sale.

A London Company bought my Contract; my career... it went berserk...
first, the West End, then the TV, then the Films... just so much work.
But, you just see the froth and glamour...'
suddenly, her eyes were dark,
'It's not all fun; this Industry is full of slimy, pervy jerks'.

'The Casting Couch... alive and well; the lines of Coke... if you, but knew;
the fat old men with sweaty hands... it's something we all have to do.'
'Oh, Trish...'she smiled, and took my hand... and softly said,
'The same old You...
it only takes a nice hot bath... and then, I'm just as good as new.

But, sometimes, in this Gilded cage of fame and fortune... so see-through;
I really miss the old days here; the songs, the friends, so good and true.
Stuck for hours in bloody make-up, while they try a new hairdo...
I'd rather be out in the meadows, hunting all those frogs with you.'

A shadow fell across the table; earpiece crackling; her chief minder;
'Time to go... the Media's sussed us; sorry chum, but they can't find her
here with you... so say goodbye.' She rose; her eyes a little wider...
and I saw a hunted look, the merest flash; they stood behind her...

blocking out the curious posers... then she leaned across to me;
a stage kiss on my cheek for them; then hidden, so they couldn't see...
a long and lingering, proper kiss... full on the lips; she smiled, gently...
and slipped her card into my hand...
'Perhaps, one day; you'll visit me'.

Then, she was gone... the gaping posers suddenly began to bray...
I glanced down to the card she'd left... so; Trish lives now, in St Tropez.
Glass now drained, I rose; stepped quickly through the door... and, true to say,
I never went back there again; that Inn belongs to yesterday.

I sold the old Twelve-string as well; and found a tiny gift to bring
a smile to Trish... so far away; not very much...almost trifling;
A tiny brooch by Fabergé... a Golden Frog;
a pretty thing...
A memory of Water-meadows; hunting frogs in early spring.