DISCS OF MEMORY
When the wind peered
with its spirit eyeglass
through the window to my soul
I felt its chill,
icy on the outside
and warm and gentle in,
while the jukebox stored my lusts...
inside, the foaming pot was filled
and outside the snows drifted down,
phlox on the darkening night...
and the poet sang
a song to catch the wind,
the artist spread
his Degas on the sand,
and the sweet folk singer
with her fragrant hair
knew those were the days...
and as she knew it they had flown,
the days, that is, for clocks
had ticked their way to yesterday
and all the yesterdays that come
and go like grains of winter sand...
and where had they gone,
the flowers, every one?
And the young men warring,
And the girl from the north country
wandered off to silence
while her shadow
fuelled our lusts...
the colours of her hair in the morning...
But they've gone, now, the good old songs,
gone to the jukebox of the past
and the old man sits here, thinks them,
but the meaning is an old man's meaning
and they were the thoughts of the child.
© Peter Rogerson 25.03.12