Butchart Repose

Butchart repose

I walked ahead of you
past the cultured flowers
to the top of the cobbled hill
where my legs refused
to descend.

When I turned back
you were gone—
only the trace
of your patchouli
drifting from a side path
too dark and uneven
to follow.

I searched
for a place to rest
and found a bench
near the exit,
your scent thinning, 
the bus idling
beyond the gate.