Time passes,

the poet once wrote

but in amongst the autumn

thoughts and withered unseen tears

I dream of you,

I dream of you because my childhood

in amongst leafy Oxfordshire lanes

and burnt blue skies,

of winter depths in which a broken heart nestled

and turned to a poet’s words for comfort,

in spring when the fire in my stomach blossomed

and war and unimagined kiss wrestled

within the summer heat away,

I dream of you often for Time has not passed,

Time…