Seven Years

Oh, my boy-
we met when you were nineteen,
beneath bright September skies,
and the trees held onto Summer;
the leaves forgot to fall.
The spell was cast as we took
those walks, our footsteps loud
as we left everyone behind.
If I close my eyes I see your hat,
slightly stretched and black,
and the grace of your hands
as you lit your cigarette.
I smell the sweet scent that lingered,
for a while in those early days,
before it became bittersweet;
out of our control,
and I recall moments- a bright crisp morning
in October, and the smell of the pub
next door to me- I stepped outside
in my brown coat-
so young I wasn't even questioning it-
and you were there, on the pavement-
books in your arms, talking with the girl
from Scotland-
content, I walked on by,
knowing we would speak again.
And the graveyard- remember?,
with it's shadowy corners and the smell
of cannabis quite profound- we stood there
once or twice and looked around,
perhaps, too, we sprawled on the grass,
snake-like, and watched each other smoke.
And all those lessons we missed-
hiding in parks and in the cathederal,
and the cafe down the road with the man
who gave me extra cheese for free.
And we learned so much.
It's been seven years now and I look out
at this September sky, I see you under it;
I see we are changed, older and yet somehow the same.
You face me, for I am yours and you, I pray,
are mine,
and I see that now you are a man, my boy.