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When there are no mirrors
I am young again
Sitting in the warming glow
of distant years
The aches and pains
will all be gone tomorrow
The days are long
and never seem to grey.
Parents are in another room
just out of hearing
The T.V has three channels
all black and white
Three meals a day
are sitting on the table
The bonfire smoke
creates the evening dusk.

Another time I watch a raindrop
scurry down a windowpane,
racing with its silver brothers
to see who’ll reach the ledge first.
Through lace curtains
patterned like a map of ghosts
the drumming tattoo
of a summer storm.

The sky is green
she said
and it was
and the lightning cracked
a purple spear
to earth.

sweet like catnip,
enticing and dangerous.

Sitting on the back step,
the air as heavy as asthma,
while raindrops
the size of pennies
splashed into
the dusty paving stones

The angels are crying
she said
and they may have been.

When there are no mirrors
I am young again
In a place
where the sounds from the garden
shuffle against
thick glassed patio doors.

The drone of a bee.

I am dozing.



Wishing that
I had looked more,
listened more,
lived more.

The angels are crying

and I cry with them.


childhooddreamingdrowsinglossmothernostalgiasummer storm

◄ Something To Say

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Martin Elder

Tue 28th Apr 2015 22:02

Nice one Ian

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