by Tanya Dawes

We walked in silence
Round the empty school yard
And back.
On my third try
She let me take her hand.
The streets were wide
Angle parking both sides
Footpaths lined with elm trees
Centenarian trees
Once seedlings in foreign soil
Alongside a dirt road.
Those that survived that first
Dry summer
Penetrated the soil
Grew tall
And magnificent.
Her fingers slipped from mine
She zipped her zipper shut
I kept pace with her stride
Careful not to fall out of tempo.
As we stepped off the kerb
She took my hand
An old habit
Made redundant by time.
I stole a glance
Past our prickly quarrel
To her.
When we reached the other side
She didn’t let go.