Cobweb’s breath dew sticky,

comes over the shoulder

from the back. Hairs

rise from their quiver.

Were I to touch your stone,

would we be holding hands… again?

There is a transparency here

where your roots spike

through the sorrow of long grass.

Under church eyes and iron fencing,

where we take our visiting hour.

I sometimes wish you

had been burnt in

the gas hot fires.

Then I could have

held you up to the winds.

You may have embraced

cliff-skies and turbulent spirals.

Tree hung dappled brooks 

and fresh water meadows. 

Casting off your glooms

as you once tossed your hair,

in a shower of grey dust.

But I like this garden

with a parlour’s quiet,

wild flowers abandoned 

to this overgrown place.

Where we nearly hold hands

sipping our tea from a flask.

©️ Dai Fry 29th April 2020.