Unfelled Elms

The cold water of an imagined afternoon, watching planks of wood drift on loch-deep waters. My reflection, the sky.
I have never been here.

I remember the wind of a walk in the woods last year; deep shadows through the trees, dusty melancholy down lonely paths, fields too yellow and stretching out to places I may once have slept in.

I pause as I cross a certain road. Elm tree lined shade, deep, deep, deep, like night. Like the luxury of night. Poor elms. Every year there's less and less of them. I would say it may be another farewell to the shade, but there's no sun to cast a shadow.