In the morning of our lives
we live with pets,
laugh with the sun's horse-feet breaking
the wild rhythms of water
upon the passing rivers;
and then after, a reminiscence of the garden, the park
of willows, of periwinkles that crowd with shopping beauty,
or the perfume of the wildflower that had the smell
of the young girl's mane turning with that look in her eyes
that could have been love; in your direction,
but you lost it, in the threshes of the fresh mown grasses.
And those fortunate to get to the wet evenings,
by the slow waves, they sit quietly under fallen trees,
as though the wide world was just a small beer garden,
thinking of the woman missed, those things unsaid,
what might have been, and what'll be,
as the liquid pours, filling every bit of ice,
while the twilight pours with a speed of night rain.
and then music you hear is suddenly
that of yesterday, yesterday, and the dead band.