Old lives, they pull
Across worlds and memory; the call,
Sweet as mead and twice as heady.
Like a breath of forest wind, so ephemeral,
So richly abundant in its promise
They cannot be contained by this fragile form.
Softly, I reach to touch a shadow and
Time pours vapours like tendrils of smoke
half-remembered, half imagined...
Full ripe with the love of how it was,
How it may be again.
I think, I feel, I see them
Close now, like reflections in a shattered mirror
Pieces of history. My ancient chronicle
How dear I hold them, piercing my heart
Knowing they can are lost, but yet wishing
Sensing their reach into the now
Always present, forever past.