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.