A presence still

Amidst the hills of fond remembered days
I sense your presence by me where we were
Accustomed to enjoy the summer's lapse
Beneath the skylark dome of buoyant clouds.

Your presence is in me, not on the hill,
Still less at home when, waking from a doze,
Half conscious in the passing of the night,
I turn to where you cannot be.

The conversations that remained unheld
Will never have the option to begin; 
So much was still deserving to be said
When time's thin trickle swelled into a flood
That tore apart the fabric we had made,
But left the power of memory to mend.