Only as a dream

I lay my weary head upon that soft long grass,

And yours sleeps in the shade of the old apple tree.

I do not dig deep, for desperate aches rest shallow,

I reach for what’s been pressing against the latchkey.

Behind the mist and haze and broken memories,

A fragile, almost cold light, flickers on the wick.

It’s the thought of you punting from Magdalen Bridge,

And I watch it escape in ripples from pale flame.

So, I close my heart and bring down the latch once more,

For fear, one day, I open it, and you are gone.