poetry diary

I can still dream of romance;
that magic touch, barefoot by moonlight,
candlelight warming your eyes.
I can still dream of success;
of gabled roofs and rolling lawns,
leisure to write, evenings in Venice – the race won.
I can still dream of adventure;
mountains to climb, rivers to ford;
campfires and songs, and tracks through the trees.

I still have time
to turns dreams into moments
and I have more power, less caution, more guile
than my younger self;
making dreams sharper until
the day comes
that power ebbs.
I can see that too;
not long,
now.

I tire of dreaming alone,
and freedom is mine to take;
the price tag known.