There are regrets that hide
between spaces of seconds,
their beguiling smile tainting
the contents of an empty sigh.
Each a jigsaw piece lost beneath
the tiles of faux façade,
leaving fabrication incomplete,
and there is no holy water
to quench thirst of dried lines,
scattered like delta from salted pool.
Simplicity is complicated,
compressed silica throwing back imperfection
of stormy existence; weathered eras
melded like reclaimed glass
into a chimera of age and memories.
Finality is so much closer now,
yesterdays number more than tomorrows
and the trickle becomes a torrent
as kisses cross out innocent youth,
eroding that mountain of expectation
into a hillock of realisation,
and all about, scree that becomes
grit laying on the p(l)ain of my history.
Copyright © Colin Marschall