You.

I touch you, only by way of passing,
Moving my hand along your sleeve,
Feeling the texture of wool.
You bow over a book,
Read quietly, hidden inside.
Kissing the smoothness of skin,
Where your hair makes a ring,
I remember how I plaited it,
Tying it up in ribbons,
Then your face in a mirror
Half smiles,
As if this intrusion was unsure.
We stand, today, wishing;
That time was left
To be able to sing;
Sheltered under
A soft wind.

For Roger Love Mary xxxx