Those days,
The white hot
Scorched marrow dry days
Lie flat and wait
For the stroking, stroking
Stroking of paint,
Close flares of Citrine
Yellow and star-blasted blue,
The detailed blaze
Sketched unduly
For the unawake
Lazily traced
In their beds
Tight-eyed to the view
They’ll see,
They’ll see the set
At the rise
And revel in the dash
Of sudden rain
Which fades
The get go to grey
Traded in, downplayed,
Dampened,
Decay in degrade
Someone will wonder,
What have they missed?
I never danced on the shore,
I’ve never been kissed
In Paris or Rome
Under orange sodden bough
I didn’t build sandcastles,
I didn’t know how
I kept my eyes shut
And misplaced
The moment in the now
It’s gone,
I blinked in the flash,
I waded in too late,
The trail is awash;
But show me photographs
Of others,
Unaware of haste
So I know I’m not alone
In what has gone to waste,
Their vital passion passed
amberrwalker 