Horse, Field, France

That time in France we vacationed
and on the second day you stopped
talking to me completely. Didn't want me in your space. Should have thought of that before your two-week invitation.
I spoke the tongue, but it was a hamlet,
no-one to time-of-day with, even, but
to escape your absence in the house I long-walked the country round about, sprang Winter tree-twigs through my hands to sky, and patted the hedgerows as I plodded on.
Lone in a field, we drew each other in
at the angry fence; you padded over
your own great solitude and it met mine.

I told you everything. I can see now
that you cried my tears at midnight
as another day – the same – began:
they runnelled down your face as they did mine. Apples offered neither of us comfort.
My memorial darling, there was nothing like your listening, reaching down your head to rest it in my hand – the hand not busy wiping my own eyes – as I told you everything and knew you understood.

(You are famous now, have everything you don't deserve. What I know on you.)