I ran to see the larch again
up on the gentle wooded hill
and let the sweeping branches trail
across my cheek and through my hair.
Each little tuft of needles stood
fanned along those curving boughs
a tender green, and in between
starred buds pricked out in dusky pink.
This is where we sometimes met
beneath the larch’s graceful veil,
the coltsfoot gleaming at our feet
like burnished coins, a treasure trove.
From here I watched the melting mist
unravel from the dripping groves;
then thought I saw you pass close by
but choose a different path instead.
I slept against the whispering larch,
the sun burnt up the hours till noon
and as the larks soared high to sing,
I knew you would not come again.