This is my first poem in ages. Please have mercy. Not sure whether it needs another line at the end.
Feedback?
December 1999
Northbound on Hitler's motorway,
the thudding concrete slabs,
metronomes of a winter journey.
A rose on the dashboard -
"Where should I keep that?" you snapped.
"They'll find out."
But your eyes defied them, unusually soft.
Haydn's Symphony 45.
Flash of light.
"What if they send a photo?"
"They won't. My dad's just got a ticket."
I remember the feel of your thigh;
Black jeans and brogues, your delicate knee
and then the Baroque town in the rain.
You left me to see the sights,
the streets too wide, forlorn traffic lights.
We turned heads at the stuffy café.
Night fell early on the forest,
a rushed hour on the way back.