Breezy, not bright, stems of crispy grass
Whisked about my ankles
I was regarded, chewing,
By ten pairs of curious eyes

My blanket set beneath an oak
Eight hundred years of shade fanned out
Above and wrapped me
Whispering of history
Its own, mine and his

Henry’s house at my back
Unexplored
As for two hours I indulged
A novel having no right to my time

And he came, focusing into view
As though he were rendering
From the past, before my eyes

And, this time, it was to be his voice
That so reminded me
Of family
For he seemed to be
My kin
And recognisable
As one who holds
My trembling and sorrow

Forever he has known
Of my wish
My fear and breathlessness
Indivisible from his comings
And goings

Three hours
Of having been held underwater
And yet being able to breathe
In and out of his presence
Was not long enough
Nor ever enough.