After that
the only
thing she thought

mattered was
the sunlight
coming through

the tall trees
as you and
she lay on

your backs by
the large pond
listening

to birdsong
and the wind
coming through

the branches
and she there
full of life

breathing in
the sharp air
and she said

Van Gogh could
have captured
this morning

with the trees
and sunlight
and the way

the wind moves
through branches
and you said

but Renoir
despite his
arthritic

hands could have
captured your
young beauty

on canvas
somewhere off
a dog barked

a cow mooed
and your hand
like a crab

moved over
the green grass
and touched her

small warm hand
and she smiled
like da Vinci’s

painting of
the Mona
Lisa you’d

seen in that
old art book
in the school

library
tucked between
a battered

old atlas
and book of
poetry

which no one
ever read
no doubt the

pond’s still there
the sunlight
and the wind

but she’s not
she gone now
all silent

amongst the
peaceful dead.