Paint me a picture.
Of a pretty pub I once knew whose garden backed onto the churchyard.
Where people would sit and chat with a beer, comfortable in the company of their neighbours.
And on Saturdays you could see wedding parties arrive. And later, newly weds exiting in a whirl of confetti and laughter; ready to take on the world.
Paint me in the corner under the Sycamore tree. The very time we first met.
When I was watching Larry on that spring day whilst my Dad was inside talking to the vicar.
You stroked his mottled coat, whilst enquiring after my name and winning me with your wild eyes and even wilder hair.
Paint me that picture, and forever capture a moment when we were happy.