07/12/18 – 20mins
Imagine the perfect island, one far out into the sea.
With coves and beaches and shingle, all saved for you and me.
Here we may rest our sore feet, and like sweetest flowers grow,
Where we are hidden, under the trees, no one else shall know.
Come with me to the centre, and see what is to be found.
A circle of old rotting roses, lying corpses on the ground.
Leave now, this place has past its glory for our eyes.
It is time for new things, watch, upon the ridge, a new sunrise.
Look how the very trees they shiver, waiting for the light!
Do they perhaps also feel the fear of what might
Be unveiled with the breaking of the innocent day.
The Island, our host, has oh so much more to say.
Do not imagine the perfect island, with it’s inner circle of black.
These fantasies lead to nowhere special, and from there you can’t get back.
Thus we shall tread onward with feet worn and old,
Open for the world to see, the world with its back turned. Cold.
A Memory Worth a Mention