Of Wayward Long Ago

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I begged them to come, come to that pretty place of picnic-past, 

but they are too busy with looking ahead to stand here looking back...

The isle of summer sleeps

Beneath sleek, sweeping lakes

Where echoes of love’s gifted glove

On gilded silence breaks

Light laughter rides the gale

That slides across a place

Where none can go save in our thought

To touch each stranger’s face

For Time’s take-giving ways

Of living stuns, its rush

Changes, yet stays strangely the same

In winter’s white-washed hush

Its gallery of trees

Stripped, swaddled, stiff and staid

Evokes a world of memories

Gripped in blue-everglade

And from piano keys

Laid listless on the snow

The air is charged with melodies

Of wayward long ago

© Janet Martin