by Richard Vince
White light behind grey trees under pink sky
Jars with the dull hue of the end of Friday
And the promise of an empty weekend.
I hum along to a familiar song
About venturing into the night of
A city I have never seen in the concrete
As the wind bends the tall trees
At the bottom of the garden
And the reflection of the interior lights
Beats back the feeble glow of
An urban evening.
Alas, the soothing song cannot drown out
Meaningless words that do nothing but
Frustrate me. I miss her eyes.
Suddenly, I feel like a curious mixture
Of old and young, the two ingredients
Reacting to produce a sticky mess.
My desires to be allowed to grow up
Feel childish and clichéd.
* * *
My right hand is cold, but the colours
Outside are the same, and the sound
Of rushing air is but two panes
Of glass away.
I think of this month as being
So monochrome that even the evergreens
Turn grey, yet the overcast night sky
Is somehow colourful, like it has
Highlighted itself in an attempt to
Become closer to being foreground.
The air in here is still, but
My ears ring with its earlier movement,
And with her soothing voice.
* * *
The colour returns, the air is calm,
The sky is awash with light and
Birds describing strange patterns
As they live their lives as
Only birds can.
I remain grounded, still a relatively
Novel feeling for me, though I still
Remember wanting to grow wings.
Posted on 01/08/2005
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 01/08/05 at 08:08 PM|
Excellent read from start to finish Richard. Glad I had the opportunity.
|Posted by Mary Ellen Smith on 01/12/05 at 05:28 PM|
the coldness of January comes thru in this and to me it seems the road traveled leads home.