The luminosity of spring is captured in this short poem, one that rings with an ethereal, dreamlike atmosphere
In a dream she meets him again
The trees shake their leaves
in this loveliest of springs
lit from within, like the face
of the boy whose fresh glance
finds her as he tilts a glass
at a book or film, at life itself,
where they sit by the river
in the red and gold of dusk
while bubbles rise to the rim,
o, o, she almost had his name.
Remember me? Maybe she does.
Related: Poem of the week: Ifs by Caroline Norton
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