Cloud Watching

( edit 2022)

Bench, grain smooth worn,

hand-warmed, shaped

by your touch,

your collar pressed by mine.

Springs grace in Primrose yellow

blessed our fertile patch of time.

Cross-hatched vapour trails,

ghosts of thought long gone

floss this sky in fading lines:

sitting here, we muse,

no yearning glance

at life before

your love entered mine.