In the subtle cold of an October evening,
I write you an elegy in tongues unknown,
Distant lights twinkling like the
Long forgotten concerto playing in my head.

Not big, but big enough: of a scale I find
Homely, not overwhelming; no concrete
Canyons to cross, no red brick cliffs
To be dwarfed by, no tarmac noose
To choke the life out.

This is a story of becoming, of growing,
Of a flame that has drawn many moths
While never being enough to warm
The cold of the still. Intricate patterns
Can only be seen from the outside.

Nowhere else could be good enough now:
I have been thoroughly spoiled
By the way it all fits together;
By how well it fits me.

And all the while, it is there
In the background, like the gentle roar
Of a tired ocean: constant, comforting,
With warmth to thaw my cold heart
And evening lights to guide me home.

10/16/2016

Posted on 11/19/2016
Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince