I sought our summer-house today. I thought
to make it mine – now, in your absence – to untwine
time’s clinging tendrils. I thought to short-
circuit all the days we spent there, un-cross
its tangled spaces, absorb all traces of you –
dissolve them in the acid of my loss.
It wouldn’t let me in. Your line of trees,
limes in their summer-prime, trained to your ways,
smoke-screened the window with a haze of
liquid green, unyielding to my gaze. The shutters,
wide, like arms to fold me in, just pinned me back:
suppose, with someone else, you lay within?