Every autumn you took a photograph
of the last leaf remaining
on the Japanese cherry outside our window.
The weather forecast promised sun
but it rained on Birdsong instead;
so I stayed here and felt guilty.
What does she see in him?
He reminds her of old books; that's what attracted her,
not his looks but
fragrance of his parchment skin,
you are chalk & I am cheese;
somehow you became my smorgasbord
while I write poetry on your blackboard
Your hair's bedecked with snowdrops;
at your feet the first greening of crocus
and in between a solitary golden aconite
pushes through the lignite soil's fuse.
My dog can smell cancers, detect
drugs in lead-lined trunks,
is pretty good at finding truffles;
he'll track a murderer over wet moorland,
today I framed two of your pictures
startled owl and lugubrious hare
displayed them on shelves in the living room
where previously walls were bare
You held on when summer gales
peaked; firm berries clustering
in falls; through leaves I watched you
bend and spring to every bluster,
I talked to a man who stood on a ridge
looking across a valley towards
the rise of Goatfell.
i should like you to read aloud my poetry
though poems can't vouch for my love
because they are mere words