there is the odd reminder of another place.
fragrant reminiscence in a flash;
passed - but in its wake - a trace.
like a tired book of poetry
that tries and fails to resonant.
close, so very close, but in the end
tenuous, vague, ethereal.
page after page careful to avoid
warmth of feeling or familiarity ... and though
subtle images, occasionally, kindle a pleasant reverie,
it is far less vivid than the recollection begs to be.
the nearness of memories made where they can be revisited,
in that sweet connectedness that time and place evoke.
the chance encounter on the streets,
traversed by past and present home town folk.
tinged forever with the young thrill of what could be.
the laughter, the closeness: the comfort that home brings.
the houses filled with family and friends.
the hopes - the heart stirred by simple things.
in the days of mostly easy time,
in the final passages - bright symbols turn to gray ...
the missing touch stones of those memories
of so much life - lived far away.
note: posted for Poets United.
photo: Another Place - W. Bourke
© 2015 Wendy Bourke