Textures
The grain of the exposed boards
Speaks through the wall of the years
We are back in our cottage
On the wind-swathed hills
Watching late winter dawns
Gather like kindled flame.
We are back with those winter dusks, -
The hyaline air hung in darkness
And a vale of stars, waking in blankets
Laid on bare boards, making a fire
From our dreams.
We are walking through mist
On snow-skirled roads, taking turns
On a swing in a deserted park,
Hearing the rhythmic clank
Of dripping links.
Again I see your smile
I have missed the long years since
Touching your fingertips
Before our exhausted sleep.
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