Across the folded hands
of some long-forgotten god,
we skirt the contours of desire,
and follow sheep instinct-drawn paths
while dreaming teenage dreams,
and talk of washing up.
I touch, again, the bars
of that childhood-constructed cage,
and sink back, scowling,
on the cushions of your rocks.
Easy philosophies aside
(and mirages and hopes)
these are the middle ways of middle age in England;
by gentle touches at unexpected moments:
a fading coda,
to the great unplayed symphony of youth.
Posted on dVerse.