Sketches in a minor key
Remembering you on your birthday
not on a stormy autumn day
but somewhere along the borderland where
time fades away
like the leafy-mist which drifts
along the hedge rows on this late
April dawn recalling time’s past:
emptily, curiously, desperately,
revealing a design hidden
in these swirls of hieroglyphics.
The wood-smoke of one particular fire
burning our throats on a lost
once-upon-a-time damp autumn morning
so full of life: snatching conkers, swirling
around as we walked through town
up to the posh grammar school.
Now, the time-ridden
shapelessness of missing-things:
assails me, silently
a fleeting glance into a distant
just something else that can not last.
My mind occupied by grief:
aberrant, obsessed, selfish
wisps of cogitation coagulate
coming into the diffuse light
of another sad May day.