Looking through some old words for something to post, and reading this one triggered some new ones
The weather won’t let me forget you
the seasons bring reminders
the quality of light
or a perfume on the air
trigger memories of times gone by
and I am almost back there
The weather in 2019
The weather won’t let me forget you
but climate change is real
and time erodes the quality
of captured moments
the weather won’t let me forget you
but you are becoming less clear
I gathered them up and put them,
in a place they could be hid,
and just to make sure they couldn’t escape.
I covered them with a lid.
They are my sweetest treasures,
invisible to your eyes,
yet when I look upon them,
their richness makes me smile.
No thief in the night can steal them,
from the place that they are hid,
and when I am feeling broken,
I gently lift off the lid.
It happened again last night, it must be this time of year,
that prompts a rummage through my unconscious,
and in amongst the rubble, finding a flicker of a thought,
pounces, and drags it forth,
to present, like a cats favour lying at my door,
sadly unwelcome but understood.
The original post below, which prompted the one above, is from 24 December 2014, and can be found here.
I had a dream of you last night,
I heard your voice, I saw your face,
and it woke again the yearning,
from it’s quietly slumbering place.
That desperate sense of needing,
which years have mercifully worn away,
the savage grief dispersed,
through life’s anaesthetising day.
And even though they carry sorrow,
I long to dream of you again,
to feel that fierce connection,
as you quietly say my name.
It’s that time of year – the week before Christmas. Are you feeling it yet? Facebook reminded me how I felt back in 2014, when I wrote this post.
Raspberries and Strawberries,
picked fresh from the bush,
the smell of fresh cut hay,
on a summers evening hush.
A thunderstorm with lightning,
flashing in the dark,
the mouth-watering aroma,
wafting from bbq’s in the park.
All of this says Christmas,
in the place that I call home,
my island state of Oz land,
what means Christmas where you’re from?
When Autumn blows,
when Winter snows,
when Summer slows,
when Spring plants grow,
I remember you.
You were my seasons,
and I was content,
to let you be my reason,
for taking the next breath.
Years have turned,
some dreams have burned,
and I have learned,
some memories do not return.
Each tiny part that disappears,
diminishes throughout the years,
the picture that I hold so dear,
and fills me with a desperate fear.
Will one day come,
under this sun,
when all that was our total sum,
dwindles down to none?
Don’t let the moments go by unnoticed, they are what make up your life.
I muse on my past
remembrances glow softly
channeled through my pen
Your memory calls
through empty rooms in my heart
tears and cheer echo
there was something in the look in our photo
and I cannot recapture it
the memory of the shape is gone
and I am lost
a glorious technicolour film in surround sound
reduced to a screen play
stark black and white words on paper
It does not come close to explaining
they way I feel now
this loss is overwhelming
with no hope of recovery
If I could stack up my memories
each one a thin slice of life
would they add up to much
or simply be such
as a bland playing card of no worth
my treasures are mine for no reason
a laugh, a tear or a sigh
their value is in how I made them
and their price
only measured by me
a memory is only a window
on a sliver of time that has passed
but as life’s river flows on
to still hear it’s song
some shutters must be closed in haste
I know that they wait in the gloaming
jewelled lights covered in dust
some day a hand will brush gently
heart open, soul smiling
and let them shine once again.