Each day I cross the canal,
With its corrugated water,
To the recently harrowed field.
A leather jacket laid on the green grass of the dunes.
Your curls spill on the hedgerows.
Propped on my elbow I dive headlong,
Into twin infinity pools.
Lost in twining souls of string.
A girl balling the wool,
As I hold it gently between outstretched supplicant arms.
We were seventeen.

Each day I cross the canal to the harrowed field,
Where the now winter wheat delicately erases,
The leather jacket on the grass of dunes.
It was once a summer,
Where no world anchored us,
No past taunted us,  
No demands listened to,
On the cusp of transition.
We loved as never again,
When we were seventeen.



Each day I cross the canal to a green field.
The colour warms a winter morning.
Blowing into cupped cold hands,
No longer brings heat,
Only faint clouds of breathtype mist.
The cold invades my toes and fingers.
There are things I must remember.
Next time I will wear my leather jacket,
I’m no longer seventeen.