Corn flower and dust
The car park is pay and display now
and I know I'll say to someone
"it used to be free"
just to hear my voice
and watch my words dissipate
in pretend smoke plumes.
I chose the old bench,
it seems to fit the curve of my back
and I like the rough crackle of green paint
splintering into that front door blue.
It reminds me of your paint palette hands.
The foundations have spread beneath
the rivers bend, the fallen millstone
flashes silver ghosts of breached wellingtons
and spun dry socks, the bark and flap
of dog chased ducks.
The old stone bridge
lends its arc to frame the fields beyond.
A heavy frost is hiding fleeced sheep
from my cold watering eyes.
I didn't get the hot chocolate,
Nigel would have asked
and I need it to be summer,
its back packed sandwiches,
its childish chase around the toilet block
and the dressed in all the gear
walkers, saying "we come here every year"
Yes, Nigel would have asked,
so I'll see you when it's warmer.
I'm going to wait in the car,
give someone my ticket,
and they'll say "thank you"
I'll say "you're welcome"
and they'll know I miss you.