Henry sits discretely outside Fleur’s house –
well, as discretely as an antique
Frogeye Sprite permits – wiping
the dials on his dash display,
polishing chrome with a lace-trimmed
hankie that once was hers.
He’s thinking of the days when,
just like this, he waited for her
outside work for stolen hours
of open-topped rides through
Surrey countryside, walks in fields
when kissing gates meant a stop
near every stile, when every tree
became a hugging point, when those
days’ skies seemed brighter blue
than any other and faces
pressed so close they fitted
like puzzle pieces without gaps.
As he waits again for Fleur to emerge ─
Henry holds a rose he will never place.
The Daimler pulls away, its hearse filled
with flower-covered willow, yet empty
in the absence of his single bloom.
Genres applicable: Affairs, Love, funeral, life, relationships, romantic
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