A whispered call to distant dreams,
And sheltered baths in quiet streams.
The measure of a person’s worth,
My thoughts the minute after birth.
The bitter irony of a bitter end,
A parting chuckle for a fallen friend.
Just ninety minutes in the sun,
The breakfast of a lonely nun.
A symbol for the morning after,
The memory of my father’s laughter.
One season with no trace of water,
The necklace that I never bought her.
Things I’ve said to peoples’ pets,
The hope on which I’ve hedged my bets.
An apology that’s not been made,
A favour I have not repaid.
The reason for a burst of anger,
That one song I never sang her.
All forgiveness ever asked,
All the glory in which I’ve basked.
All the wisdom I have earned,
All the bridges I have burned.
And the finest of this short selection:
The attainment of perfection.
For all the trinkets life has brought,
There are many that I hadn’t sought.
But as my tree keeps gaining rings,
I must keep room for useless things.