Hundreds of stories are brushed away into the soft autumnal breeze
Words, hopes, dreams swept into history with the auburn leaves
As I stand in the clearing of the meadow
Where bright memories lingering in the crevices of my brain
Where touching moments imprinted on my heart
Like the outline of a muddy shoe on a winding path
Are strung all around me across the outstretched branches-
Vintage photos shimmering in the fading light
Golden stars illuminating the bitter night.
In the emptiness I can see shadows of my footsteps crunching over seasons past
I see myself intertwined with the bare branches of the trees
I see myself skipping down the path in full bloom
In the silence I can hear the laugher weaving it's way through the wind
I hear the nostalgia it evokes drumming beneath my raincoat
I hear the notes of the song I've always loved
Bringing the stream that dried up over the summer back to life.
Although so much has changed, although nothing remains the same
It hurts that all of this beauty feels a forced flashback to the past
Cruel cold snap of winter whisked away my wisteria
Icy axes quick to the grindstone sliced down my tree in full bloom
The sound was deafening
Wandering weeds and thistly thorns choked the perfect flowers of my garden
Plucked from the soil too soon
Ground frozen prematurely.
Everything has changed irreversibly, out of my control
Since the last few months, nothing could ever be the same
My horizons are expanding yet the world is shrinking
Twisting down that path, I have a lifetime ahead of me
Yet I blankly stare at the empty stump and remember what used to be
But secured with a daisy chain around my heart
Rest the most beautiful things that can never be taken from me
That will blossom forever, glittering in every colour eternally
That cannot be battered by hail or broken by thunder.
And just like that, you're here with me again
And nothing can take you...
LD x ~ 28/10/20
YOU ARE READING
Loudspeaker
Poetry'... are my words enough?' Many themes and issues run through this collection, interwoven with each other, knitted between poems, so much so this is less of a collections of poems more of a continuous narrative. When I write, I'm constantly inspired...
