Would it be the same without
Bank holiday rain? The gentle descent
From bus station to bridge would not
Be right with frost, or a blazing autumn sunset,
Or thickening mist crawling from the river.

The park could be pleasantly peaceful…
But would it be eerie in the absence of
Craft stalls, and music, and tankards,
And a restaurant in a tent?

It is easy to forget how many memories
Are built around this town I have
Only ever seen dressed up. It became
A refuge from my everyday life;
A form of escapism that was almost
A waking dream, a chance to live
Someone else’s life for a few days.

But it was no more than a mayfly:
A chance to dance in a spring evening
Throng that was doomed never to last.

And all that I found in my heart
Died with it, leaving me with
Everything I wanted to leave behind
And everything to which I did not
Want to return.

May would inevitably become June,
But not there. Set in the aspic of memory,
It lingered as a footnote as
The narrative moved on, turning slowly
From tangent into asymptote,
Floating gracefully to the cutting room floor.

Perhaps I am too happy to return;
Too settled to risk being knocked off balance
As all the futile dreams masquerading as
Could have beens come flooding back.

Elegant dancers and flowery tents were
Merely distractions: all I did there
Was hide from my heart.

11/29/2016

Posted on 12/08/2016
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