We ascribe it to the late Spring – orchids

winking amongst thigh-high buttercups

and we’re wading through, following the grass-flat path

to nowhere in particular.


I listen. Like always, to your troubles,

offer conciliatory words; advice

that you won’t follow.  Reminds me

of all those early years,


those sleepless nights you stayed away

and I couldn’t rest till you came back

all sleepy-eyed, and full of

teenage secrets.


We cross the golden meadow to the woods,

breathe the purple scent of bluebells

amongst the grass. You lead the way

again; whilst I follow.

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