It wasn’t the rain that played on the canvas.
Or the dance of the fire burning our thoughts.
It was not us – heroes in the darkness
Dodging puddles and laughing at the frogs.
Nor was it the glen and its sideward glance
As morning washed its sky-blue face
And turned upon your turquoise trance
While the cuckoo sang to defend his place.
It was just you. Your secrets unscrewed,
Your worried, quiet and hurried words
Free for once and for once renewed,
Stones in dreams I dreamed I could afford.
I cannot forget what forgetting kills,
But left alone it is left unspoiled.
No comments:
Post a Comment