When the sky reminds me of an abstract print
not seen for twenty years,
and brings back days of easy joys,
and grass and waters wetting blades,
and friends half-known,
or less, sometimes (as it turned out);
I know then, for sure I’m getting old,
and the pleasures of being young return,
like the first-opened buds of meadow flowers,
or lambs under the trees;
tall, dark green and sad,
with nothing left to say except to whisper,
gently to the breeze’s caress,
those memories that will endure and re-emerge, perhaps,
when faced by death.

You are distinct, and not so much of me now;
no longer caring what’s to come.
And no regrets as yet; like writing:
forever now, yet lost just as it leaves the pen.

Oh to be as flowers in the field once more;
forever young and beautiful and free with me;
forever fresh and growing, yet always doomed to die:
I love this world tonight.


Written on the train travelling through Warwickshire, summer evening – feeling reminiscent and reminded of a poster I had on my wall when a student. Relaxed, a little sad, and nothing to do except watch the world go by.
Submitted to Jingle poetry potluck, “nature and life.”