"There are so few clouds in the sky
I could fit them in my pocket"
you said to me
lying on a hammock I made for you
in your garden.
I let the comment go
assuming you had headstroke
or were tipsy, after your third glass
of Martini and lemonade.
The sunshine brought out a side of you
I had never seen before
all tranquil, untroubled;
that summer not once did you mention your job
or how I never offered to help
with the washing up.
You even picked me flowers
from a meadow we discovered
on one of our walks.
YOu arranged the bouquet
with such perfection that when I joked
we should leave our jobs and open
a florists in the South of France
you bolted upright and for a moment
I could picture us there.
Sometimes I think back to that summer
and wonder if we would still be together
if I hadn't set fire
to those ladybirds.
