nostalgic 53



newness is

about yet here

is old, dwindled

and unsure of

itself


uncertain as

tomorrow’s

unwritten


why waste

waking? forget

the strides it

took to take

to leave


those lavender

hills behind will

always be that

purple sameness

confetti’d with weeds


where the gorse

shakes the breeze

below where several

adders sleep serpentine

and still as rope


those rainy tears

gloss over that

windy worded summit

where the trees can’t

pace their creaking


here is finding too

much fading and the

chill of happening

decided, the strewn

bay is well waved


i think their furling

graphite and spumy

edges like collars of

snow such icing such

traces of


then go, gone into

or under buried with

the constellations i

buried long ago,

scarcely they glow


those lanes of

golden forgetful

backwards where

childhood strode,

reminiscing finds


only an empty

page


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