I sit back in my old paint splattered chair
leaning for your other book,
not because your poems reflect that
lifetime, but because for a while you were more than
a part of it all as we viewed it
I remember a time
when kindness was all we knew
from the comfort
of deck chairs in the garden.
and how brief it was
I remember we held it soft and warm and welcome
the universe whispering the words to take
what comfort you can in colours
of an English summer.
I remember the kissing and tongues that we once shared
under the sycamore tree
as I wipe my palette
it becomes clearer
this moment I retained,
stroke of the brush, is this how my life is defined?
is this the moment?
I wash the brushes in a glass of muddy water
when drying the brush I notice how remembering you
is remembering the art of being
the hand and the brush
what remains is an unfinished
of a broken dream.