Just like the days of my childhood
When the stream was too long
For darkness to fall,
Melancholy has lived in me,
With Its moss and grey rocks.
I’ve hurried slowly towards the peaks
Where the sun rise against the cold
And Nightshimmer drift on the kneeling hills.
Only to whisper loudly in the frail dark
Of longings and memories
That were not my own.
I set out to re-conquer the remote islets
of my childhood
With no other guide than homesick tears.
It was like poaching happy memories
From a seagull’s empty nest
With wings obediently
Following the soft pull of the salty sea.
There is a sense of oldness in the air,
As though it has been impregnated
With tenderness, delicacy and wisdom.
Ghostly peaks, partially hidden
By knitted webs of thinning wedding veils,
Worn out by generations of stone cold brides,
Remind us of old newness and peaceful departings.
Spring’s forest school alumni,
Ready to embark on their virgin flight,
Darken the air with insecure strong-born wings.
There is the sound of rain falling into lakes
And souls slipping into sunsets,
As though leaves were attached to their backs.
And mornings to come,
With night-trees feeding on shadows
To part ways with the sun.