You stood before me in the haze and light,
Already mellowing soft, an afternoon.
I, on a bench of wood, long grass, tall daisies,
A warm wall nearby, russet earth.
A window open, deep silled, a red geranium in a terracotta pot.
Perhaps I held a book, Maugham or Henry James.
You seemed to be all white cotton and khaki
And in your hands you cradled a collection, objects,
Your elegant fingers the graceful custodians of precious things.
I cannot see them now; I no longer know.
But I did know that you needed a box to put them in
And that this was something, yes, that I could do for you,
Because in my mind I saw it.
Squared, shallow, soft dove grey cardboard
But strong, perfect in its symmetry, its close fitting lid, its worthiness.
And imagined this way, so it became and it was here.
We must have spoken. At least, I recall some words
Your mouth, your lips moving,
Your lips. That crumpled shirt.
The hairs on your bare arm standing, backlit,
You seemed all golden and stillness and I spoke your name.
Oh cherished remembrance of the warmth of us,
The grass scented, rich and fertile air, a sudden singing bird,
The drifting of a spent dandelion's clock..
What was the time, when we sat
Gazing, side by side, into the box between us?
I wonder still.
And I wonder still, what was it that we saw?