In the middle of the night,
we were cold rolling stones
in an empty street.

Our souls bundled up with some sense of permanence
as you walked me home for the last time;
It was home, for the last time.

The darkness of night trespassed my secret shelter,
at the lingering of our embrace.

The first and last warmth
I had felt,
was yours.

Morning would be colder,
I might not feel the same acquaintance with autumn
as I had with you.

I walked with you under trees,
spots of sunlight rested on our skin and clothes;
orange-gold leaves falling
around our bodies, softening the ground,
beneath our feet.

In our innocent nature,
we stood in defeat.

.

It was on a wonderful summer morning when
sun warmed emotions met at the intersection of our hearts
Love bloomed in fragrant bouquets of forever dreams
while cattails and lily pads dotted flowing streams of affection
Every winding path led to a place we’d always longed to be where butterflies accompanied us to afternoon picnics on grassy foothills
and lemonade kisses tasted sweeter than lavender honey
Soft breezes sung to us in symphonic whispers
as sprawling oaks reached overhead in canopies of shaded bliss
Blue skies caressed our bodies as we tenderly embraced
the beauty our love had sculpted on the landscape
and all was perfect in my world –

then came winter

How  do  the  tourist's
know  I'm  local.
They  are  always  stopping  me.
And  asking  the  way  to  the  lake.
Perhaps  It's  because
I'm  walking  on  my  own.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.