Across long years there would always be a reason

for each journey here or there, that doesn’t matter now.

Often hand-in-hand we’d take a seat plein air 

maybe a beer garden, or an old wooden park bench

giving half an hour to the unhurried sun.

Antics of little birds sure to make us smile

we remark on oddly arranged boughs and branches 

Also the history of a cloud passing.

Together we felt blessed to let the grass grow

Before rising to attend the appointed occasion

Long forgotten now.