the pond

Wing on wing,
butterflies
lilted around
each other in
brisk, spring air
by the pond.

The pond,
halfway between
our houses,
where young hearts
met and ate;
butterflies filled our stomachs
to the brim.

The water brown but
"look, a tadpole"
and if we're lucky,
a silver-headed snake.

In the damp winter,
I return
to the pond.

Water's still brown,
the wooden shelter
warped from weather
and time.

I feel a sense of
longing.

Has this shelter known
a first kiss
or warm touch since?
Have butterflies flirted around
these boards in years

Or has it,
like us,

Aged and been tucked away,
unopened,
maybe even forgotten?

Two ducks inch across
the water's edge
as night begins
to descend.

I kick up
the kick-stand
on my rusted bicycle
from years of travel.
How many miles
have you travelled?

How many
first kisses
have you seen?