A burst of yellow flowers in a dainty basket, presented to me, sits in the porch, glowing a reminder of yesterday.

In the garden on a hot summer's day, we sat beneath a green parasol, words tumbling out, sometimes overtaking verbs, adjectives and nouns in our eagerness to pour out our past, present and future.

Perhaps in another life, we've laughed, talked like this on ancient summer days. Maybe in a distant country or on our home turf for it was as if we'd known one and other for a long time, not for only a few hours.

We ate pasta. Drank red wine. Tilting the parasol, shielding us from the sun, our voices carried across the garden into a humid heat, reaching close neighbours who overheard our enthusiasm, our gossip.

Then those brief pleasant hours came to an end and I was left holding her poem written as a gift to me, extolling upon the virtues of a Dylan dawn.

And as I read her own words; the billowing bright, breaths of light up Panty's hill top, Cwm Donkin, she ends with the question, 'Who could ask for more?'

I reply, in my native tongue, 'Dim.'