MY GRANDPARENTS HONEYMOON IN THE WOODS

They look so young, below the trees.
It’s 1920, and they’re holding hands.
The things they said have blown away
in the draught of people leaving.

Decades have guttered rain through rafters.
Their cottage encases the whole of an oak.
Their garden is a dancing green for foxes.
They looked so young, below the trees.

A Yorkshire wood at lambing time. A breeze
has blown her hair across her cheek and pressed
her laughter in the album for a hundred years.
It was 1920, and they were holding hands.

The next war ended, and they lived. They moved away.
The things they said are tied in ribbon on the step.
Their rhubarb plants grow on among the nettles
in the draught of people leaving.

Published in Caduceus, Issue 115, December 2025