There are more reasons than one to remember my birthday

Rising midnight,
twenty-six years ago,
snow swirled outside the window
of my college room.

Oxford was hidden.

Doncaster lies open
outside my window now,
swirling in snow.

I was writing,
speculatively, recklessly, hopefully,
that first letter to her
who all too briefly,
all too many weeks before,
I’d tried to woo
at the Brewhouse.

My written words worked,
Somehow.

(She sleeps beside me now.

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