by poetrydiary

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.”