On The Downs

On the Downs

Life was made for such days.
Sun enough to soften the grass.
A breeze so light it brushes
like a kiss from someone
barely known, though
coming familiar - brushes

like the wing-tips
of the gulls, skimming the
skin of water, raising no
ripple in their wake.

Ships pass at a blue distance.
The sound only of dogs -
heard as at night, across
valleys, in old dreams.

I take the steps to the
sea wall, kicking pebbles
off the edge as I head along,
thinking of little except
a line of verse, the sense of
worth intrinsic to this, the
comfort of familiar things.

I glimpse her in passing -
a moment in the shine of an eye,
a flick of hair, a thing not said.
I look back.

There are possibilities.
Always, there are possibilities.