Thoughts On A November Evening
Late November, the last days of spring
are beginning to preheat the air, the vast
outback furnace is set to fire up
for summer and ignite the northerlies.
But for now, the evenings are cool
as I take breath, float thoughts off
towards a dozen vague destinations
that glow on memory's horizon.
Old age sets you off on such journeys
as if to find something lost long ago
that seems to have left a lifelong cavity
at the very centre of yourself.
Meanwhile, the world calls me
to hear what it has to say in the sounds
of a November evening.
It is not interested in my memories.
It cares little that I'm old
and that my body is sometimes hell.
I am perfect for it to echo its sounds
just like an empty seashell.
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