Jogging on the Wirral Way

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.