We sea swimmers, as our tired heads submerge,
after the camp's struck, after trailing back:
the pub, the shopping, the chippy, the verge
of unconsciousness, tippled on its track,
drowsing, reverberate in sunset's ray -
wake up talking old times. What's still on track
with you? These memories are yesterday,
fresh as crisp decision, thirty years back.
Oh when time seems tired of us we'll be old,
an we struggle to know the treadmill's glaze,
habits in the valley of confusion,
will fly for us lost ghosts of yesterdays.
Let me remember like a bifrost-cold,
your good friendship left me no contusion.
..
YOU ARE READING
Keep The Home Fires Burning
PoetryA poetry Collection. Now Lunk has taken to his bed, swearing not to write one more word about C, and muttering 'bloody garden', it behoves (Love that word, don't you?) me (and Anima) to fill out his shoes, with soil and flower seed. So we will be 'e...
