Gently persuasive buds of dreams once grew here,
in fragile beauty convincing realities to merge.
Parallels in lamplight, tingeing ancient stone;
or some timeless concept, that in its simple bowl
retained the almost wholeness of some unspoken goal.
We know now –
existence is but a line in the poetry of the world,
and solitude is a journey: a road between our meetings.
Buds flower (the lucky ones) harden and fade to wood.
Splinters of reality;
or perhaps recombined with gaps.
Once hammered by minds
anvil of necessity
with such noise.
It’s quieter now:
And new buds grow on our branches.
These are reworked excerpts and lines from poems written as a student many years ago, refound and recombined in honour of a college reunion yesterday and stimulated by this week’s prompt from Poetry Tow Truck, with thanks to Margo Roby for pointing it out on her wordgathering site.