I was having a nostalgic day recently, wondering about
the past, dreaming of times long-gone, and …
WHERE WOULD I GO IF IT WERE YESTERDAY?
which yesterday would I find
if I sat child-like under
a sway of fruit trees?
the yesterday when plums melted
ripe and dark in my mouth
stone rough against milk teeth?
those years when bells
graphed each day
to rituals of school?
or primrose mornings
when the scent of spring
whispered under hawthorn?
would it be days
of sails wing-and-wing
above rushing hull?
it would be the yesterday
without regret and
there are few such
first published in Wild Violet
A Summer Father … terse, imagistic lines; … It’s not nostalgia that we experience but quiet, poignant grief. Richard Stevenson