I remember sitting 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
a time when kindness was all we knew
from the comfort of deck chairs in the garden.
and how brief it was
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.
The kisses we stole under the sycamore tree
as I wipe my palette clean it becomes clearer
this moment I retained,
stroke of the brush, is this how life is defined?
Washing 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
and still I miss you.