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Lydia.

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  • Lydia.



    With the beguiling pallet of memory
    I re-arrange your face to fit my fancy
    Soften your voice, widen your smile
    Shape your hair to frame my illusions
    ~
    There now
    Take your place in my dreams
    Where shall we meet?
    It has to be summertime
    Maybe in the evening cool
    ~
    Away from Oxford tearooms
    The Queens and the Rose
    I will not share you with
    Post Etonian chatter
    And overpriced Darjeeling
    ~
    That faraway Sunday
    Lost in the Vale of the White Horse
    Where we asked the ducks
    Permission to rest a while
    Neath the willow fronds
    ~
    Seeking nervous conversation
    You babble Russian poetry
    Till I stop the ramble of words
    With my lips
    And we laugh at the disapproving ducks
    ~
    With the last brush strokes
    The portrait is complete
    Stowed in a mind crevice
    For release
    In the lonely hours.



    Authors note.

    This poem refers to the girl I spent a summer holiday with in Oxford and then we went our separate ways with no hard feelings.

  • #2
    Is this how memory works?
    Summoned, an ideal
    rewritten at each recall;
    you retouch the faded folds
    with a painter's brush of words

    Comment


    • Cari
      Cari commented
      Editing a comment
      You are absolutely right, recall after years tends to glamorise the past. I acknowledged this trait in the first stanza-- Shape your hair to frame my illusions
      thanks for reading and your comment
      Regards
      John

  • #3
    Idealizing future or past...makes for lovely poetry. Thanks for sharing this beauty!

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