I knew you for a while
but not for as long as
before, or after.
Oh, the after, it goes on.
Each summer the sunflowers
and the roads.
Rains in the North
and the heat of the South.
Mountains rise and rise.
Summer.
We shared those of course –
a handful, a decade, just.
Talking on the telephone;
long car journeys.
People come and go.
I said it then, laughed.
I said it when I moved,
when you did, friends did.
Things are lost.
Things begin.
And all the while.
All the while what?
I continue, so far.
You do not.
MW Bewick 