Lily May

Pressing my face against
the glass, I look into the past.
Me, on my customary Monday visit;
you, in your beloved garden –
despite the rain, turning
to hail, then sleet.

I had let myself in; you
in your jeans, and waxed
jacket – up to your armpits
in mud, but how happy you looked,
like the proverbial ‘pig in shit’;
you, with your plants.

On spotting me, through
the window, you raced inside...
made a bee-line for the Aga,
pressing your hands to its door;
its warmth, slowing thawing
those half-frozen gloves of yours.

Little did I know it then,
but from all those petals, made up
the potpourri of your life,
this would be the one I’d keep;
you, kissing me ‘hello’, and
the ice, melting at our feet.