Anthony James Leahy

I remember a time when the sun was generous
in its nature as we drove along Telegraph
and when my first taste of your Missouri spring
allowed for an enjoyment of its flavour;
the roses on Patterson that you had so lovingly graced
on nets, filtering rays while resting in gentle symmetry
casting subtle shadows as if a butterfly ballet
on a breeze exclusively fashioned from the passion
within your gift to me. You fed me grapes from a can
as carpenters conspired to steal our position for breakfast
as we suffused in an architectural pink grey peace
under a scented perfumed St Louis sky;
a parasol for the wisps of cigarette smoke that danced
between us as we made plans to share the day.