lost seasons
there's this recurring dream where we float a
year or two between us like a piece of driftwood,
suspended in the recanted verses of summer days
untouched and unlived, winter like a dreaded call
that never came, lost somewhere in freshly mown hay.
we kicked and treaded formless water with pruny
feet and unpruned hearts, and talked for ages about
our lives and ruin and i'm the more vocal of the two,
but i am the islander, cast off from the mainland;
what else is a lost soul supposed to do?
i will ask of the yuletide nights and and snowy
skylights and books brought to life in the candlehearth,
of springtime winds and rolling hillside heather.
let me hear about the time you unravelled London
all on your own, the belfry bells and stormy weather.
the last time i had this dream you reached over
to cover my emerald arms with yours, pink and
scarless, which would someday be mine too.
you spoke kindly: "be brave, little soldier boy.
know that i live for us, and love for you."