the days of the flowers are long gone:
those desperate flowers in the sun,
in our lives’ memories,
they cut like a sabre
yet make friends with tomorrow.
in obscurity they grow there
– these sentiments –
happily drawing on a cigarette
in the hot noonday shade,
necessarily giving away
the times of our blue sky days.
whilst our thoughts require that we do not
squander our time
idling in the hours of the ocean days,
the distant baby’s crying in the dusk
moves something in me
& brings your question to bear;
– is it not perfect to live this passeggiata,
to see your love enrobed in green again ?
admired by all around.