The Wakefield Trinity

Sunday morning,
in Bretton,
on a hill.
with a friend,
once a lover.

The wind bites,
and the mud larks,
at our boots.

I am quiet.
My head,
in someone's bed.
Far away from here.

It begins to sleet.
Eyes sting.
Heartbeat missed.
My friend laughs.

And I start to cry.