Friday nights

Staring at a plane with you in awe
As if we had never seen one 
Or been on one before
And couldn’t even dream how that might feel
Like watching moon landings in the 1960s -
Not something we’d ever do for real

This church bench has become our regular haunt
And of course our cottage confidantes
So open, such good listeners, who put us through our paces
We stare solemnly ahead
Do not turn or bend our necks to see each others faces 

While this pandemic rages 
We just sit on our bench 
In the place where you said your vows
As the street lamp shines
Looking up at a crisp crescent moon and the plough

Murmuring gentle hellos
To the other silent souls
Shuffling past with dogs or alone
And then suddenly we’re too cold
And we know we have to go home 

Fingers frozen
Toes that feel broken
So we loop up to the rec
Admire the houses, peer in at windows
Gaze at the windmill, lit up so it glows

Trot down past the brook and over the railway bridge
Down the shingled road leading up to where you live
Into the car park for a last goodbye 
Past pot holes and puddles - 

But no kiss on the cheek
And no cuddle.