A winter walk in middle England
by poetrydiary
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;
redeemed occasionally
by gentle touches at unexpected moments:
a fading coda,
to the great unplayed symphony of youth.
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Posted on dVerse.
That last stanza is just beautiful. On so thought-provoking….”a fading coda, to the great unplayed symmphony of youth.’ And…ah….is there still time?
I like the sinking back on the cushions of your rocks ~
Nice reflections, I can think of revisiting one’s youthful cities ~
Wishing you Happy Holidays ~
Very reflective, I did love I fall into the cushion of your rocks…an uncomfortable memory by the sounds of it…nice poem.
“the great unplayed symphony of youth” – makes me lament what I never got to do. Funny how you regret what you didn’t do, more than the things you did.
nice….enchanting piece that took me back to places…the unplayed symphonies in particular…
Hmmm, not sure what you are saying, but here was my image:
Mindless, like sheep, we build cages of habit. We touch them and remember the child who was a little more free. And we are sad.
But I may be wrong.
..a throwback to a simpler time and place..pleasant reflection of childhood dreams perhaps limited by geography alone…Merry Christmas ;).
Perhaps youth is the time when the orchestra practices for a deeper more meaningful performance.