As the shadows of night roll away,
to reveal the starkness of day,
the tick of the clock talks to the rain,
bouncing from the glass of the windowpane.
The memories of sleep insist to be seen,
in the silhouetted form of a shaded dream.
The words you said then were a balm,
as soul sang to soul in a voiceless psalm.
And then we swam in the cold of the ocean –
as the soft evening light of the westering sky
left a glow on your skin and a lasting devotion –
words weren’t required then, between you and I.
We had some connection in those days,
that cannot now be relayed –
a coming together in the time of our youth
when things seemed to have a reality of truth.
These were the days when love soared,
to the far reaches of some unknowable shore;
but memory now is but a passing wave,
like traveling together (yet apart) to the grave.
There is a chill in the air and a perfume of decay;
the first hint of autumn on a late summers day…
And the distillations of a cold dawn light…
And a silence beyond the hammering rain…
And the remorseless tick-tock of the bedside clock...