A fleeting glance
all those years ago in Portugal,
the sharp bend of a mountain road,
the pile of flowers, ribbons, photographs,
a random display of bright, vibrant bouquets
against the brown, dry rocks,
shimmering cellophane in the morning sun,
a small wooden cross to highlight something tragic,
a weathered sign that identified the point of it all:
"Sleep Well Gupo".
Who was Gupo?
Whoever he was, he mattered - matters - to someone,
not to me, driving past his shrine by chance;
although twenty years on, it's vivid,
an enduring image frozen in my memory
a camera-shot clicked by a fleeting glance,
reminding me of a complete stranger.
Sleep well, Gupo.