Oxford

Messing about on the river, the
serious rowers compete in
clubs and the official is in
the loudspeaker, jovial,
careful.  We sat and ate,
watched the boats come
and go.

At the Botanic Gardens the
happy idiots squealed and
barged into one another,
punt poles dangerously
waving like clashing
swords: laughter and
unsteady oars in unpracticed
hands.

We walked our feet off
looking at the buildings,
identifying trees, enjoyed
the warm air.  Later

back in the silence of my room
my thoughts were wide, my
heart cared.  I thought of
my sleeping husband as the
minutes counted towards Matins.

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