Bench grain, worn smooth,
hand-warmed, shaped
by your touch;
your collar
pressed by mine.
Springs grace in Primrose yellow
blessed our fertile patch of time.
Cross-hatch vapour trail,
ghosts of thought, long gone
floss pale sky in painted lines:
Sitting here, we muse,
no yearning glance
at life before
your love entered mine.
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minor edit 22.01.11
