Memory hurts – our hearts are stung
But sometimes I think the pain is for
Not a particular place but more
A special time – when we were young
For freer days when we knew hope
And what we felt we had was – scope.
I passionately long to stand, hands in the bowl
Washing up, looking out onto our sunlit garden.
I long to see a cat move sleepily and pause
Through the dark and wind that gusts and bustles,
Beneath a sky the icy moon adorns
Along cold pavements where the dead leaf rustles...
