A lover from long ago rings with news:
Blackbirds are breeding in her garden.
Three chicks, all mouth, nesting in the ivy.
I am kept abreast of developments.
Her shape beneath my hands, once everything,
is numb to memory, the sounds of our bodies'
wantings and pleasures echo beyond earshot.
Young love’s a mayfly, all buzz, until spent.
But affection isn’t idle, sets to
rebuilding the past, so that scattering
such as walking by the river at midnight,
late Sunday breakfasts, laughter, games, mere talk
- unconsidered off-cuts of young passion -
is bedded down in the earth of passing time,
and in due course the spreading tendrils bind.
The ivy clasps the fence, new tendernesses born.