A view from an old bedroom window.
Watching a car drive away, laden with a life.
We know how events can change us irrevocably,
the music of our past chiming every hour
like a grandfather clock, chopping up the silence,
taking us back to when we thought we knew how to live.
Watching a car drive away, laden with a life.
We know how events can change us irrevocably,
the music of our past chiming every hour
like a grandfather clock, chopping up the silence,
taking us back to when we thought we knew how to live.
Maybe it comes down to those moments
when we are present, when we pay attention to the world:
to the way the light catches the electric blue of the dragonfly,
hovering like an echo, both still and all movement,
the smell of the yellow gorse flowers catching in your throat,
the softness of your hand in mine.
when we are present, when we pay attention to the world:
to the way the light catches the electric blue of the dragonfly,
hovering like an echo, both still and all movement,
the smell of the yellow gorse flowers catching in your throat,
the softness of your hand in mine.
When we are old and have less need to speak,
what will we best remember? The orchestras that shaped us,
or the birdsong sprinkled amongst the leaves?
And if our memories start to scatter into the wind
like dandelion clocks, what are we left with but our bodies,
holding onto each other in the night, our breath without words,
living our days looking towards the sun.
what will we best remember? The orchestras that shaped us,
or the birdsong sprinkled amongst the leaves?
And if our memories start to scatter into the wind
like dandelion clocks, what are we left with but our bodies,
holding onto each other in the night, our breath without words,
living our days looking towards the sun.
Mark Sargeant,Shropshire, UK
