Picnic

I can still taste the sun-warmed 
cheese we ate on a blanket 
in Botanic Gardens that July. 

I smell the tangy lemonade we
drank from plastic wine glasses, 
like a pair of pound-shop dandies!

A stolen lunchtime, three days in, 
we rendezvoused on bikes, hungry 
for the lesser-spotted Irish sunshine. 

The sunshine in my memory is your face, 
lit up to watch a squirrel’s furtive picnic 
in the shade of that big tree.