Slow Walking in Haworth

It’s ages since I travelled.
Longer, since I left home alone.
Before mafting masks,
scarce pasta,
nuclear war.

I’m looking forward to the train,
light ale,
well-lit desk, and
slow walking
on Shirley Street.

He would never walk with me.
I was too slow, and not nearly lovely enough.
Days out.
I was always pink faced, tears
before we reached York.

Imagine blossom and graves. I’m dying
to see where the light visits
and where it doesn’t.
Will the spirits rush right in?

Imagine him holding my hand?