I
wish
that
I were young again;
that
Time,
who
has stamped
crass
etchings on my face,
were
once again a friend,
as
on those summer afternoons
where
sunshine pooled
across
your belly
and
berries thickened
on
the raspberry canes.
I
wish
that
when we followed
those bluebell paths
they
had never ended
and
that we were still
upon
them now
negotiating
touch
and
kiss
and
loss.
But there was
no
recognition
in
those times
that
these times
would
be
but
the worn lining
of
my empty purse
where
coin edges have
burned
the fabric;
where
mites of dust
have
gathered
in
muffling silence.
Sleep
crumbs
the
corners
of
my eyes.
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