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Poem

Old songs
Rippling across the yard like common leaves
Stirs me
Like the wind stirs trees to drop gold memory
I wonder now
Where have you all gone, doing what
Is it not easy to remember again
Do you brush tears like I do a gnat
Remembering joy really cause pain.

Old songs
Let them, spinning through faults and scratch
Night longs
For stars like chicken in a country yard to hatch
Whatever happened to those hens I had
I think I know, O too bad, too bad. So bad
I was powerless against the broken heart
Nature flying, flying like clouds apart.

Old songs
Let them play, the real unreeling the mind
Old songs
Playing on the edge of memory deeply blind
Tells the recurring tale of Sisyphus labour
The filling and outpouring, the empty valour
The ever recurring loss, and the storing
The collections of our loss, and storing, storing
The mood, the visions, memory
The ghost and image of history.

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