It is Summer, newly turned.
We sit outside the bookshop and you read:
‘Tree at my window, window tree’,
From a poetry book, newly bought,
But smelling like a hundred pairs of hands.
I close my eyes and feel the warmth
Of the sun caress my face,
Then the gentle heat of your hands
Stroking my hair as you read.
We lie on sloping banks
The graveyard to our backs and the river
Stretched huge and flowing in front.
How many like us had lain
Here, now sleeping beside the river?
How many had lived and loved, and now
Lay, buried beside the bookshop?