Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Sand timer

The pale green silent room lies dead,
The mould seems to grow from his leg .
The muffled snoring and things in jars lay bathed in a slow golden haze,
Time here seems to pause, stories to be told and unfold but there is no one to tell.
So they gather moss in the recesses of my mind, or hers, or his or maybe another kind.
When the steady beating of the rain kept us spell bound,
We lay up here and forgot the songs of the birds and kiss of the earth.
Our memories never served us well, them our masters, we their slaves, disappeared.
Now no one can tell the tale.

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