July

We are rather formally attired

for country pursuits in the ducal woods;

August

me with a tie and you, I uncover,

with white suspenders and matching knickers.

September

Intimate stranger, forever touching

for your least kindness, forever surprising;

October

unpredictable as light, you bring

my heart from hiding again and again!

November

Earth warms. Ice melts. Seas rise. And nothing,

everything changes. Each day, we marvel.

December

Still flowering, for our wintry birthdays,

are fuchsias, geraniums, a rose.

January

As the tide turns, we watch snow drifting

landward over fields, woods, hilltops.

February

We turn for home – and, in the dark border

beneath the ivy, find the first snowdrop.

March

Our camellia flowers: hardy, exotic.

Palaces are stormed. Governments fall.

April

Somewhere the wind is always blowing.

We make our house tight against all weathers.

May

A solitary swift arrives, gliding,

banking, silent. Our daughter is born.

June

And verdant England is replete with bird song,

with that hushed stirring, that old, old promise.