It was October the last time we met,
your single buttoned, burgundy coat
in the way of the nearness we once craved.
Pregnant pause in the unstitched pockets
where your hand pressed fervently mine.
And the tracks in the field left us
a lasting impression. Not to the farmer
who gathered in his soiled cattle, just to us
that lived on an evening walk sentiment.
It seems strange to think now how enmeshed
the time spun in reams to be our keeper. Caged
within the promise of something that never could be
a regular timepiece. It never ran like clockwork
or even finished the course, no athlete
could have been proud of that.
Habits formed before we knew the reasoning
behind, opened up ruts in the back lane,
symptoms then eventually disguise; a red coat
to swerve away the unwanted bull.
