My fingers touch dry strokes, from a brush, on a canvas from last year. So delicately you worked that piece. The landscape, brilliant greens and soft browns, ochre fused with other blends from a palette. Beautiful depth and life, on taut cotton, on pine. My fingers move gently over trees and hedgerows, and I imagine your hands on my face, a moment alone, with you in my mind.

the edges, tatty,
it needs another varnish,
maybe tomorrow.