that afternoon
we lay together beyond
our garden wall . . .
undulating mosses still
mimic the shape of you
one window
remains in the church
where we danced
coloured shafts of light
tango with shadows
I weave
a mourning cloak on the loom
of your loss,
obsidian threads pulled from
storm clouds and starless nights
this dull ache
of yearning every autumn . . .
I recall how
the wind played with your hair,
your hands played with mine
