When I was young I was tired
when I grew up I couldn’t sleep
now with the wind behind me I walk
in knots of pain, but without ache
it is a strange kind of benediction, this life
that when we dim our mad-flutter and seek love
people turn their faces away
strange and unfamiliar when they should
be well known
and still the wind blows northerly
and still the moon ebbs her patina glow
something sorrowful and blushing glorious
where glass cruelty doesn’t sting as hard
as those tender years where searching became
a drug and all doors had rusted hinges
now there are fewer doors and no locks
just the sound of the swollen river
rushing endless and in all direction
a chorus of grief turned wild
feral women climbing trees in torn stockings
leaving smudges of their assent
like the rubbed auburn of a fox
turning corner
almost unseen.
Almost unseen,
but only almost,
and for those who see
with the eyes of friendship, of love,
beauty to behold
and whether in romance or friendship
the words of a song
make more sense
than once they did
“But it’s a long, long while from May to December
And the days grow short when you reach September
And I have lost one tooth and i walk a little lame
And I haven’t got time for waiting game
And the days turn to gold as they grow few
September, November
And these few golden days I’d spend with you
These golden days I’d spend with you”
[September Song – Kurt Weill]
this is a good poem! <3 well done
A similar sense to Peripheral which I read first. Excellent imagery
I know the feeling. Plenty of options in the wrong moments, then when one is ready… 😌