The Wayward Child
Memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide
grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left,
in cold or torrid waves, our spent passion, now abides
for you have left me, long ago, alone now I'm bereft.
Grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left
beside a roaring bonfire, where fireflies on night's wind glide;
for you have left me, long ago, alone now I'm bereft.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside.
Beside a roaring bonfire, where fireflies on night's wind glide,
we conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.
We conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief
in cold or torrid waves, spent passion, now abides,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.
Memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide.
First Published by Wilderness House Literary Review 2013
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