Kelvingrove Park, 1976

That spring I felt
the green buds open
on skeletal trees.

Near a winding path of ash
as the river grew ripe
in the slanting sun,

thoughts became places.

We watched the
Sunday-best children,
impaled on shining
communion medals,
smile at a camera`s
jagged edge.

The sky turned to dying lilac.

And I remember
watching you walk away in
a heaviness of thunder
and the first drops falling

like winter-tipped arrows.