How can an open window
bring about a nostalgia
so triumphantly painful?
How can summer’s slipping smells
transport me to a bygone time
of bare feet and grubby knees?
When, around the campfire,
our troubles disappear
like leaves we cast into flames
And the only discord
Is between our carefree songs
and the mournful refrain of the owl.
Perhaps he knew it would not be long
before the seasons turned
and winter-cold oppression caught us.
And the green smell of first dew
prickling on the grass in the fading light
would be nebulous; a memory, a feeling?
We ignored the damp, all those years ago –
tumbling around regardless
of later cautions at our grass stained clothes.
Now, I only wish we had cherished
as I mourn through this open window