Grass-cropped, cut for the air,
Clean and stained like rough trouser knees,
Green as bottles. A cut summer smell.
One pinch of salt for the pipe, a curl
At once gone: but the lingering fingerprint
Of granddad’s pipe, one grainy whorl of ash.
The sheets smelt of us: crushed roses.
You held me, dappled, long morning sun:
A pattern for warm sheets, now unvisited.