I.
if you recall, it is only because
the rain's touch chills you like two years ago,
the shafted sunlight touches for a moment on some young girl's hair,
the air is scented like that spring evening.
else you do not think
of rain-blurred vision,
braided hair,
goldfish ( spilled
like bitter tears ) in
shimmeringly weak lives.
you hate the rain, for its cold touch
conceals within the burn of memory.
II.
there was a time you remembered
sunshine ( on fair skin and dark hair ) and music
in boxes where a boy and a girl would meet to strains
of light chiming, after dancing round,
would find each other meeting lip to lip,
chastely, something that could even be thought pure.
but now memories are left to tears and blood and dying
and the ghost of a hand on yours
on some bitter morning.
III.
in a full moon perhaps you see, reflected,
a young boy's face and tears ( silver
in the dimness of a strange room ) or else
the sepia-toned light of remembered autumn
and laughter caught in the gleaming
of spectacle lenses. and steel reflects too,
like concrete, and windscreens, and the tip
of an arrow flighted sure.
but you must learn you cannot trust
to memory, because
you have nothing of your past left to protect.
IV.
smiling, and running ( as children
will ) in endless green under a sky
blue as cliché. but fields can burn, and recollection singed
to the dustiness of ash. the passing breeze is the wake
of a maybe and a could have been, and your sigh
is the surrender of a tomorrow. chasing black and white
is now the pattern of your dreams, endless as a circle.
the grass is always greener
in retrospect.
if you recall, it is only because
the rain's touch chills you like two years ago,
the shafted sunlight touches for a moment on some young girl's hair,
the air is scented like that spring evening.
else you do not think
of rain-blurred vision,
braided hair,
goldfish ( spilled
like bitter tears ) in
shimmeringly weak lives.
you hate the rain, for its cold touch
conceals within the burn of memory.
II.
there was a time you remembered
sunshine ( on fair skin and dark hair ) and music
in boxes where a boy and a girl would meet to strains
of light chiming, after dancing round,
would find each other meeting lip to lip,
chastely, something that could even be thought pure.
but now memories are left to tears and blood and dying
and the ghost of a hand on yours
on some bitter morning.
III.
in a full moon perhaps you see, reflected,
a young boy's face and tears ( silver
in the dimness of a strange room ) or else
the sepia-toned light of remembered autumn
and laughter caught in the gleaming
of spectacle lenses. and steel reflects too,
like concrete, and windscreens, and the tip
of an arrow flighted sure.
but you must learn you cannot trust
to memory, because
you have nothing of your past left to protect.
IV.
smiling, and running ( as children
will ) in endless green under a sky
blue as cliché. but fields can burn, and recollection singed
to the dustiness of ash. the passing breeze is the wake
of a maybe and a could have been, and your sigh
is the surrender of a tomorrow. chasing black and white
is now the pattern of your dreams, endless as a circle.
the grass is always greener
in retrospect.