Editor’s Note: When we first met Tim was taking a class studying the Russian poet Alexander Pushkin. Thus, from when we first started dating at OSU all those decades ago, Tim has written me poems. Any man who will write poetry to you or make music for your throughout a lifetime is a treasure to be cherished. And I do. He wrote this to me on what was my parents anniversary. Happy Valentines Day friends. May you spend it with those who cherish you most and whom you cherish most.

The mist lay folded in the hollows,
While an early February’s cold blossomed our breathing,
As wool carded soft upon the vale.
We left our cottage door-
Two bright orange blobs-
Stumbling our way astride the narrow and winding road
From Middleham Castle, ruins now, but once quite prominent,
Its tower rising, in remembrance of that once brief but violent king,
The battlement in decay, bearded now by winter’s damp,
In silence, plying a pause, deep as the vows once spoken,
In loyalty to the master of that younger century.

Northward, we trek toward the racing paths,
And dodge the trotting stream of horses,
As their hooves clatter the cobbled stone
In search of their practice rounds above the town.
Now, that they are past and out of sight,
The wet cough of a rook cracks the momentary hush.
You note that my pace has created a gap,
“And this was supposed to be a joint adventure,
Experienced together.”

Beginning our descent, the fields green and verdant all around,
The river to our left is faintly detected now and again,
A silver murmur threading through frost-bitten reeds –
And soon a compound and steeple tower in the distance
Makes us aware our destination is not far –
Coverham Abbey, stark against the green dale and gray sky.

We pause among the ghosts of priors who once sang Matins,
Where stones once reverberated Latin and vespers.
Survey the headstones and crypts,
Straining to decipher names and dates –
A hundred, and often more, years in the past.

You discover a pathway towards the River Cover,
I could linger, but I follow,
And we amble over and through the pastures.
Now, in the bottom of the valley,
We are more closed in,
That is especially true when confronted in one paddock
By a dozen rams of different breeds,
Who cluster about us in hostile or curious manner,
We cannot quite tell.

So, I lead as shield and you follow,
This is until we spy the hills we formally came down.
Here, your following has lingered far apace,
Hence, as I take the ‘high road,’
Climbing up through the paddock to the roadway,
You take the ‘low road’ due south along the practice track.

This, I do not realize until atop the hill crest,
As I see you march on behind one of the barns.
I race ahead up the lane to peer at the barn’s far end.
You do not appear.
Minute after minute spills by.
You should certainly be quite far ahead by now-
I proceed onward then, down the hill and to the cottage.

I arrive at the door and find it locked,
For I have the key.
I unlock the door and begin to ponder:
I waited quite a while above,
And so, you should have had time to beat me to the door,
Where could you be?

I surmise that the only way to tell is back upon the dale.
Hence, back up the hill, not trudging leisurely as before,
But a spritely jog spurred on by a sense of urgency,
Remembering your two serious recent falls,
And with the rain these dales hide many a slippery spot.
Any misstep could a turned ankle produce,
Or cause a severe crash upon your bumm,
Experiences exacerbated perhaps by the frailties of your age?

Upon the ridge where we parted, I call your name a time or two.
Hearing no answer, the choice is clear –
Follower her path along the pathways below.
Sprinting down the paddock hill is much easier than the roadway climb,
And easier still when the practice track is reached,
Its layers of chips and sawdust encourage yet more speed.

Through a couple more fields, carefully rounding the wetter spots,
I surmise I’m well past ol’ Richard’s keep and turn up the hill once more.
No longer at a jog, I pass a house and then a lady with her dogs,
The latter racing around the paddock in chase of a hare they will never catch.
Atop a rise, I spy the top of the former King’s tower at my left,
And recognize the pathway we had explored earlier that morn.

As I approached the door, there was yet no sign to know
Whether you indeed had arrived there.
But once inside the entryway, your walking stick against the wall
Did tell it well.
Passage to the living area revealed you sitting and smiling there.
In the lamp light before a crackling fire in the stove,
Your hands holding a cup of tea upon your lips,
Which split an ever so cagey grin.

“Well,” you declared,
As if nothing in the world had shifted amiss,
“You do take your time!”
“You did notice the door unlocked,” I replied,
“I’ve been here once already, back up, and now back again.”
“What, you went back where?
“To where I last saw you, and then through the bottom of the vale.”
“I called for you, several times,” you protested,
“But, of course, you cannot hear!”
“Yeah, never heard you.” I replied.
“You hadn’t need of coming to find me; I’m certainly not helpless.”
“I know,” I replied, bending to press her cheeks with my lips.

Outside, the mist continued ever present over the dale,
While the castle remained faithful keeping its watch.
The abbey hidden in the bottom’s shadows up the vale.
And within its stone-walled banks,
The river’s murmur was lost over the hill.
Twas the wind now that rose to bring on the night:

One road walked to the destination,
Two roads walked back home again.
Two hearts beating from two different efforts,
And two minds making their own choices freely,
But one home and one kindled fire shared
Against the weather and world’s cold affairs.