They were here
a fortnight ago. Twined together on that bench
by the pond, under the big willow, lost,
it seemed, in urgent conversation.
This time, I walk closer by, listening.
‘No, love, I do, I really do love you.’
Now i can see her ochre and violet cheek,
the necessary scarf at her throat. The long sleeves,
though it is June.
Her smile is a fading gardenia. She is exhausted,
dissolved, consumed.
What lesson has been learned here, I wonder?
I am not a silent poet 