Clarinda. Poem by Scott Forster

I sit in the room
near the wounded tree
that tells it's tales of human misery
long ago I understood myself
knew where the truth lay
now the fog has fallen on us both
and we sit by the open fire, waiting for a clarity like day.

She stands on the hill
ghostlike, ephemeral, a mystery, a painful memory I cannot kill.
We can't map out the future, only dropp an X
hope for the best.
The lavender and heather carry the trails of her tongue,
the dancing, how merry, among the shed story of the young.

She is reflected behind me in the waters of the stream,
I see her face so much and try to guard it jealously like the prized and precious dream.
Her face hung like the hangmans drop, or the purple hue's of a dusk cloudy sky
a melancholy that read like a page in a book through a urgent stare and lips that form the question-
'why'?


Drinks and conversation flows and my mind absent to the crowd wanders
meanders in thoughts around your name and your peaks and valleys
how we travelled arm in arm through midnight shadows and alleys
to the place we designate home and adorn with out love.

The Springtime Daffodils and the new born lamb
remind me of the passings of time like the eras of man
that what I once was is no longer what I am
and the history of our hushed huffed promises
is no longer worth a damn....