A Poem


“… dust on a bowl of rose-leaves.” –T.S. Eliot

Loved faces
appear and disappear
before me
smiling, bored
or disapproving.

Disembodied voices
near my ear.

Familiar haunts
reside within
a flickering void
my reach.

I wander
a world
as memory,
behind a screen

as are future days.


9 thoughts on “A Poem

  1. As promised. I’m always quite nervous about being the first to comment on a fresh poem!

    I felt the longing here for things within your grasp but yet so far away. There’s always something bitter swet about holding to a memory but having to let go.

    Sensitively written Matt. Great one shot 🙂

  2. “Footfalls echo in the memory
    Down the passage which we did not take
    Towards the door we never opened
    Into the rose-garden…”

    Nice response to Elliot’s take on time in all its tenses…your work as always like a drink of cool water.

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