Before we actually move my autobiographical series on to my University days let's stay briefly with my Secondary School but step out of the schoolyard and into the real world. Teen years are when we first discover the pleasures and pains of relationships. This poem will fit nicely in here as it's title might indicate but also, nicely in many years later when I was actually at a Garden Festival where there was an art exhibition. Beyond those details it's quite self-explanatory.
(And for the one single person reading this who may possibly recall the actual events of at least one of the verses, there is a little poetic license involved in the retelling.)
"First Love- In Flashback"
I saw her years later,
At an art exhibition:
Saw her drawings first
And knew the style,
Read the signature,
Remembered that she'd married,
Walked away before she returned;
Before she saw me.
I watched from the doorway
As she adjusted the position
Of the display,
And all the while,
From half a lifetime gone,
Inside my head I carried
Her, aged seventeen, and yearned
To alter history
I remembered the party
Where she'd appeared in front of me,
Repeatedly,
Waiting for my conversation
Where at last I'd spoken
Overcome my silent heart
And we'd had two years
To be together.
I remembered the riverbank
And the afternoon with three
Of her school friends
And three of mine, all on vacation,
Where with trivial tokens
We lied that we would never part,
As clouds drew slowly nearer
To change the weather.
I remembered the wintertime,
When she'd not returned my calls
And I'd not seen her,
And remembered the final meeting -
Another party in another town -
Where conversation that was bile
Disguised as banter;
Was all we'd had to say.
And I saw her all those years later,
Within the gallery walls,
And I watched for just a moment
A nostalgic glance, however fleeting,
Of a different life that might have been.
And for that brief while
Let fantasy supplant
Reality on a rainy day:
And I turned and walked away.
France’s New Dictionary.
13 hours ago
No comments:
Post a Comment