In salad days you were my love and the sun
climbed in an orphaned sky, you were my love
and I fawned at your feet. I wrote easily of the
sweet ideas we shared and my life was complete.
In dog days and the dawn of a new era the same
heaven eschewed those sanguine days, says we
pretended our love was replete, cursed in the streets
of our discontent, believed life was ended.
Forty years for fear of an anaesthetic edict I did not
write – found reason in lust and not love lost or common
sense, fell in love and out with real women, fought
wars of arrogance and malicious malcontent, bore
scars etched of a conscience disabused by drear
untruths and two-dimensional ideas, drowned in
the slough of despondence. It was there, bobbing
deliciously amongst buoyant rejects of discarded
ideas I saw you again, clear and sweet, shining ‘tho
stained and misused, less radiant. We both clung to
refuse and a fair wind saved us from pain, landed on
these shores, together again and writing once more.
© I.D. Carswell 2006
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