Jogging on the Wirral Way
by Alex Scott
I remember her in mud tracks
where soles have left kisses,
in fields of orphaned daffodils,
and closed-eye dandelion wishes.
I remember her in panted breaths
from cold air smacking throats,
in songs fast enough to jog to,
and slow enough – so we won’t.
I remember her with legs crossed,
palms cupped on pink cheeks.
With laces tucked in to ankle socks
and locked little fingers, “next week”.
I remember her in car rides home
with coats as blankets for heat.
In music sweet enough to mute the sound
of engines, and empty passenger seats.