Picnic

a warm breeze
brushes her hair
     still tied back
by a promise
to let her help me

pack all the food
for the monthly picnic
     greasy fingers
licked clean of chutney
and samosa filling

me with a song
familiar over the years
     in lockdown
how I wish for days
before we lost so much

so soon though
the sun goes down
     light recedes
behind the old oak
the sound of giggles

or just the wind
ruffling my hair
     now loose
tendrils of a lone vine
curling around a trellis