Fulbright Scholars

Fulbright Scholars

Where was it, in the Strand? A display

Of news items, in photographs.

For some reason I noticed it.

A picture of that year’s intake

Of Fulbright Scholars. Just arriving—

Or arrived. Or some of them.

Were you among them? I studied it,

Not too minutely, wondering

Which of them I might meet.

I remember that thought. Not

Your face. No doubt I scanned particularly

The girls. Maybe I noticed you.

Maybe I weighed you up, feeling unlikely.

Noted your long hair, loose waves—

Your Veronica Lake bang. Not what it hid.

It would appear blond. And your grin.

Your exaggerated American

Grin for the cameras, the judges, the strangers, the frighteners.

Then I forgot. Yet I remember

The picture: the Fulbright Scholars.

With their luggage? It seems unlikely.

Could they have come as a team? I was walking

Sore-footed, under hot sun, hot pavements.

Was it then I bought a peach? That’s as I remember.

From a stall near Charing Cross Station.

It was the first fresh peach I had ever tasted.

I could hardly believe how delicious.

At twenty-five I was dumbfounded afresh

By my ignorance of the simplest things.