Conceived Poem by Ian Bowen

The green stains
of grass and moss
on the shoulders
of your white summer dress
and the pieces of dried leaves
on your discarded shoes,
place in mind that barmy afternoon;
when our temperatures soared
to match the blazing sun,
as we kept in time
with gentle swaying trees.

And it was then
a quite acorn fell
and nestled on a bed
of nurturing leaves,
and I think we both knew,
that very soon,
hopefully,
there would be….

another tree.