A very different type of Dèr Mouw poem

This mental pilgrimage I often make –

I’m standing once more at the spot where you

through summer’s lane of oaks came into view;

a cherished image I will not forsake:

from sunny trees down onto sunny earth

the sunny finches’ end-trills dripped apace;

I saw the happy smile on your good face,

and thought: ‘That love’s more, surely, than I’m worth.’

And one thing’s certain: should you die, again

I’ll seem to be there in that oak-lined lane,

watching you coming with your face so dear.

Then will that summer’s day long gone from sight

become a vision of the future, where

you wait for me in an unworldly light.