Strolling, alone, down memory lane,
I peered through a gate and she was there,
everywhere, shading her eyes
as she concentrated on
sky and clouds and a hawk that danced the breeze.
I looked over a hedge and she was there,
everywhere, holding her hat
as she picked wildflowers,
only to throw them high
and turn her face to the rain of daffodils
and daisies, bluebells and bush-peas.
I stood aside as she peddled past
on a blue bicycle, breathless and laughing,
as she gathered speed down the long hill.
And I turned to follow, desperate to catch her
for one last conversation, one last touch,
before she rode into the sunset,
but she was not there,