A spider hammock hangs
On its gossamer strings
As raindrop crystals tell
Of what the future brings
Ducks in judgement
The fire cracks in the homely hearth
As memories and stories flow,
Recounting each our winding path;
Long years and days divide, we know,
Yet always we return at last
To ties which bound us long ago,
The memories of childhood past:
Of winter games amidst the snow.
When in some autumn year we meet,
And talk again of years before,
Will we in memories repeat
These patterns which the flames restore?
Of cherry whisky, tartan pleats,
Bad music choices fast deplored,
The plans which may yet come to be
And those that by the wayside fall.
If I should drift across the sea
Sharp memories of this may fade,
But always something here will be
That will not wane with groaning age;
A lifetime built of memories
The sum of which I’ll gladly pay
Whether my life shall set me free
Or drag me to an early grave.
Tide and time
I sit in silence, waiting to be read;
Longing for gentle lips to speak my words,
Yet more that spirit might delve in my head:
Extract elixirs which themselves need heard.
Soft now your footsteps wandering my mind.
What, browsing through my volumes, do you seek?
In asking of the keeper you may find,
But revelation may just leave you weak.
Pages a testament to love which was,
An ode to what the fates themselves arrayed,
For in my living now I still feel loss:
My memories like open wounds displayed.
Do you recall how freely my heart bled,
When with your silence you cut through the thread?