Monday, 23 May 2011


No matter how hard
How dusty
How dry and how parched
the memories of summer
have a place in the mind
where you can spend a moment
and call it a summer holiday
and sparrows
always the sparrows
from the old house
where the ghosts of the mother and son
sit and talk for hours
and i go to sleep
hearing familiar voices
I will never be able to listen to again.
But, no matter how distant
How faint
How deathly and how fleeting
the memories of summer
will always be green

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