Late Sunday afternoon
Late Sunday afternoon:
Old gentlemen walking in the park,
talking back the years,
the faded good times.
Old gentlemen walking in the park:
What's left of life?
Faded good times
in black & white stills.
What's left of life:
Gentled echoes
in black & white, stilled,
a past long passed.
Gentle echoes:
talking, taking back the years.
The past's long past
and it's late:
late Sunday afternoon.
I am searching for Janey in your words. I have been dreaming about her. She is sitting patiently waiting for me to see her. “Just talk to me,” she smiles.
Maire I have read your poems and drama and short stories. I am certainly touched by your evocative writing.