A farmer lent Matsuo Basho a horse.
Basho remembered him
with a poem.
On a moonlit walk
we think of our children on an island
on the other side of the globe.
Next morning
from our daughter’s i-phone
we get a hoped-for video call.
They are walking empty Tokyo streets
on a Sunday night
buying neon-bright T-shirts.
Our son promises to
talk about his trip
when he gets home.
Basho was born to wander.
Awestruck by a cricket singing under a helmet,
on his journey he found his soul.
Our millennial son says,
“I’ve done more travelling than I’m used to”
and ”You know how I get without Wi-Fi.”