You have had the lines lurking
like wisps of want for days and
days aching in the corner of your
conscious mind, lissom lines that
sway with poignant rhythm, melodic
lines a-play in echoes of a half-
remembered, never quite forgot
coda to a past you’ve not replayed
enough to succour satisfaction. The
time to write them down has come
and gone again; they linger on,
languishing, fragments of a fascination
– a realm that’s lost, a perfect past
you can’t reclaim.
© 28 June 2007, I.D. Carswell
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