It was just a brush of lips

from what was at first a passing

stranger, undecorated, unperfumed,

more than a hint of beauty

tucked away in foreign,

never to be explored shores,

a stranger that came to represent so much more,

a passing of daily time, now

separated by sea and the once only,

never to be repeated kindness

of such youthful female gaze;

it was just a brush of lips,

that I would never taste again.

Ian D. Hall 2018