You were right
The gales subsided with the light.
At the station leaving for home,
A Turner print hangs in the waiting room.
A runner passes, his feet beat concrete.
A dog, mad with squirrel chasing in the park, barks.

The fields hold water in blue reflective puddles,
The muddled mention of your previous love,
And the sciatic tension of leaving you, hits me in
My right thigh.
On the train,
The colour green, speeds by.