Monday, May 19, 2014

The Little Star

Looking out, looking back in time,
Before the wrinkles, the grey hairs, the bills,
The too wet/too dry/too hot/too cold
Of the weatherman’s drone,
Back before the humdrum was ordinary
And the ordinary was unwanted
And life was measured between pints of beer
Scoreless draws and delayed trains.
We go back further, looking skyward,
Back to the essays and endless conversations
Of Jude the Obscure and Robespierre
And how the Proletariat will never win
And how Thatcher stole milk
And how scraped knees and hopscotch were far more
Important than the nightly news.
Back to the time of short pants, Sunday best,
Weekend roasts with grandma, cloth nappies
Hand knits, bowl cuts and standing quietly
Never saying a word. Adored, held, safe, secure, sleep.
Then gasp, BANG! Heartbeats. Then Silence.

The little star, out there, somewhere,
Looks forward towards time, towards you.
Seeing the potential as it searches the universe for signs
A light that you may or may not see.

You both scan the dark, where your gazes
Will meet, somewhere in the middle of time.

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