Once upon a time, the wild honey groves were legendary.
Now they are little more than common land, where people
can sit and imagine they are in the Mediterranean regions
whilst, in reality, they're sitting on a working man's
allotment near Halifax.

I knew a chap who used to sit there whiling away the
day, cloth cap in hand, piping on his smokes, staring into his
own face only a yard away in the shed window. His name
was Huffin. Mr. Huffin.

I had been wandering through Industrial England on holiday
from myself, speculating on the whys and wherefores of
existence, the space given over to it and the forces outside.
And there he was, shed staring.

"Hello, Mr. Huffin."

"How do you know my name, Geezer?"

"It's as evident as the nose on the end of your face."

He studied his profile in the shed window, mulling over what
I had said.

"Oi, Geezer, that must be why I can smell that those wafts of
wild honey blossoms so clear..."

I nodded sagely and moseyed on to Halifax.

(published 'Peace & Freedom' 1989)