Thirteen. I remember this.

Arcadia


As if a country kitchen were where we sat
and you wore a smock, and I an apron,
as I rocked a newborn asleep in his cot,
while through the door came laughter from our other children,

and this table, instead of papers and books,
held a jug of ale and a weekly wage,
while the scent of baked ham spread as it cooked,
and with one hand I stirred in onion and sage,

I caught you lift your straggling thoughts over a fence,
your face framed offguard, gazing fields away,
as you herded your words into a sentence,
your eyes brown and deep as the soil's clay.


-- Sarah Wardle