a frosted windscreen
toxic thoughts are lingering
playing memories
the coffee cups are calling
this world is made for the cats
Tag: memories
Stillness between the trees
snowflakes fall
Something reminds her of love
sweet memories
Standing in the fresh air of youth
sorrow floods in
Standing in the stillness without you
soft flakes fall
Memories
the quiet path
waiting inside for forever
the car arrives
fabric moves around her
the old church
whispers on the breeze
their eyes link
intense waves of loving
they commit
serious words of promise
together now
scents of the garden
become memories
Before we forget
Early darkness
a chill brings on the gooseflesh
endless music
jewels from you
overflowing books in the case
scrolling down
stopping short
help me to glue all of the memories
of me and you
before we forget
what it was like to live in freedom
with our ideas
and our love
Musical Memories
Tea Cosy warm thoughts
what could have been fades away
Sprawled empty tea cups
pieces of music vibrate
happy memories building
I Remember
I remember the way she moved
Blueberry stained lips
Warm fruit-flavoured skin
A flash of skin on high
Sitting authentically in the sun
Feeling things I could not fathom
Filling me with meadow hopes
Twinkling in the sun and the grey
I remember her on a carefree day
The Kitchen
The house greets us with fragrant smells
of citrus tarts, homemade lemonade,
and images of a long, familiar kitchen we love.
Stepping into the home from our childhood
we each process the way we feel
about the good and the bad memories made.
A nostalgia for idealised memories saturates
the memories we wish to deny
as Mum brings the teapot to the old cedar table.
Breakfast at the Cottage
The susurration of the flowers, insects, and the breeze
reminds me of my breakfasts with you
when you visited me, taken from the city you love more
than you loved me, and this place I
built for you, this tomb where your former self sleeps
Your voice would quieten my desire for constant music
as you talked yet rarely spoke about
frivolous topics, materialistic pursuits, the absence of
nature, philosophy, politics, and love
The whispering music of your voice haunts my home
made for you and our imagined children,
which I understand you never wanted to have with me,
nor with all that came thereafter me, us
Your voice surrounds me,
the tomb of what we were
living without you, my love.
Falling Again
A fleeting glimpse,
the music of Angelo Badalamenti
playing down low.
I am in that place,
watching people with telephones,
ethereal women.
The horror of small:
exacerbated by her beautiful face,
falling in love again.
Golden-Haired Girl
There was an ordinary day,
on that day, I met a beautiful willow tree
with eyes of many colours.
With her hand in another’s,
I looked upon that willow tree with doleful love
that could never come to be
A golden-haired willow tree,
haunting my memories with her beauty and grace;
a ghost of a love unfulfilled.
C & K 