Seasons

He smells the passion and perfume, the mild and manic moments of a young love. Here comes a ragged flight of crows; he squints in the cold sunlight. Blue shadows glimmer and glint. He has a lover in mind; a dead one, the crows carry her memory to him. The aroma of deep red wine, silk stockings discarded yet still writhing and tangling. The clumsy sincerity of sexual pantomimes, Tipsy lipreading's of arousal utter their naked words, glimmers sculpture tantric passions into recollection. He wonders did any of this change - the girl, the crows, the tidal musk, the surfacing ebb and flow the sense of it all? Autumnal flares restore a late warmth to cooling images. The long-lived out run their dreams. Ardor awakens once more between scarlet lips. It's a kindred, half-living kind of being. The seasoned shelter such memories under concealing crows feet, or beneath chameleon-lidded eyes.