I remember summer 76,
hiding from the heat
in the attic.
I remember the red pavement,
swelter of creosote,
Father never not
checking his oil.
I remember the lint
of church incense
in that dank half light.
I remember dusk
always outdoors,
air on my face,
low pink skies,
trains sliding
into the night.
And I remember you
on the downs,
our gentle bed of chalk,
your hand.
I remember feeling safe,
my breath quick,
wet grass,
open sky,
and the big black crows
pausing.
