Many times ago, it was so many,
so many that I fail to count,
each date, each happening
on the way, my memory
rushes passed years so full and free
(I keep no diary, no calendar on the wall,
Blueberry have I none.)
compete and jumble in joyful tumult,
echoes in the room
paintings seek my attention,
ghostly children in a class,
coloured pencils brighten
mundane recollections,
photographs and things
like that, in albums lost
beneath cases in the loft,
envelopes swearing eternal love,
newspapers proclaiming peace,
mans' eternal dream.......
charity's lost content.
John Rickell
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/charity-s-lost-content/
