it was an english summer. your ankles
patterned with light struck through
the leaves, arms bare and a little on
the pale side. the sun was the soft kind,
inviting, kind on the eyes; rain came as
mist in late afternoons, a gentle fog that
swallowed the grounds and left dew
the next morning. we wore freshly-washed
linens and silk, sat in the grass and didn't
worry about stains; ate sandwiches while
walking between the rows of plants in
the garden, our hands soon painted green.
i wrote letters home on heavy paper, its
surface faintly ridged beneath my fingertips,
a pen resting heavy with expectation.
the words were bland, unseasoned - there
was no reason to tell them about the long
days that stretched away from sight,
the gentle air and perpetual scent of flowers
that hung poised in it, the cool, darkened
rooms with marble floors and mirrors, the
timelessness of youth and something beautiful.
no, there was no reason to tell anyone about
the fold of your hands against leather reins
or the way the sunlight fell on the side of
your face; no reason to divulge the secrets
of your laughter, the way time slowed into
nothingness, perfectly captured and preserved.