These candle-lit vignettes
which form my memories
flicker and flare
in dancing footlight flame
casting shadows upon
as wont of its vague nature,
adulterates and adapts
to fit the play for today.
I reminisce in watercolours running
as if fresh upon a new page stained
in a sketchbook I had once discarded
on a parkbench left out in the rain
those memories I painted with such nuance
now with each raindrop lose some line or form
like the years passed by as scattered pages
from forgotten sketchbooks roughly torn.
peace, here be blessed peace.
Etruscan sun above
a thousand years away.
is it Sunday?
even the suffering god
is here but frescoed serenity.
time shows not it’s anger here,
if not for the worn steps
of countless pilgrims
time would be a stranger.
we sang our songs under this hill
and drank until the sun had died
it was to us as sacred soil
our youthful dreams in its ground lie
we kissed our first under this hill
and battled inexperience
loved in the shadows of its mill
unfettered by impermanence
to this day when thoughts retreat
and regrets cloud them with their sighs
to spring shadows now defeated
by time’s hand, at our Thermopylae.
a spiral staircase
missing steps as I descend
into the once known
what paints these waters
that flow in reverie
is it the ancient masonry
or mountain olive earth
in my memory
she is no longer a river
but a playground
of youthful abandon
a thousand miles away.
my darling, do not dwell upon
the light of other days
for memory’s a lover scorned
and with our senses plays
were our kisses then so sweet
and did the sun shine gold
with welcome arms were we replete
or are these prevarications told
my darling, think more on today
despite the loss of youth
for this moment will us not betray
nostalgic dreams for truth.