A little better this time, because I’m starting to warm up a bit.
Other People’s Memories: 2
I have dreamed us through this route,
this dusk-dulled route, time and again,
colours blurred into Impressionism
by the incessant rain;
feet slipping the path down
to the platform, to meet the train
that brings us away from the mud
and leaves, and stains.
I have dreamed us out of the city,
and into the woods without a trace,
where memory plucks twigs uncaring
into happiness’s wind-sore face;
hands grasping cold fingers as we stumble,
crash, and unsteadily race,
back to the trainline we came on
into this most secret place.
I have dreamed us so far from home,
and back by well-trodden roads,
faces blurred by changing years
and the increasing weight of loads
bearing heavy on my mind, as I recall
with distant loss: we never showed
up on that platform, and the forest
remained an unbroken code.