It’s not yet spring, still it’s cold and grey.
I spent a lazy Sunday afternoon
Before a warming fire on a granite hearth
In a long white house, far from
The place you called home.

I left you behind, a long way north,
But once I saw you here
Long after you were gone
In sloppy cardigan, slippers, book in hand.
You turned and smiled at me,
That smile, that well-remembered smile.

Do you like this place?
And me? Do you like what I’ve become?
The child you taught to read and play,
Who grew, and learnt and moved away
From that sheltering home a long way north.