Her fingers, long and impossibly beautiful,
Raised an early morning coffee cup
To the silhouette slope of her nose.
It was then that he remembered,
Not only her but another morning
Some other time ago.
He remembered those hands
From thumb to tip of outer finger
Warm and spanned across his back,
Palm pressed against his skin.
And then later, climbing down the stairs
He stood outside on the veranda
Where the wind was stirring
And her scent lifted from his skin
As he stood waiting there for her.
He watched the clouds that tumbled
Down across the ridge and full of rain
That fell upon the hard black earth.
Now, rising from her chair, she walked,
And the swirl of scented air from
The motion of her passing,
Turned his eyes to her.
But brushing by she did not stop
Or pause in recognition.
Sitting, he did not turn to watch
For what was left to see?
Nothing more than a thin grey ghost
In a passageway of shadows
And a clock that hung on a café wall
Counting the moments away.
Eric Peters
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/toronto-airport/
