I don’t know why the Oracle gave me this from just the first page of words. It’s sad, and I think I’ll come back later to see if she has cheered up a bit.

Times I remember

I remember, I recall,
a soft and gentle time,
when we walked beneath a limpid sky,
and nights were lit
by moon and stars.

I remember when the clouds where white,
and pink at end and break of day,
the stream ran loud between the trees,
and I could speak to stones
and understand the blackbird’s tongue.

Sleep was still a painted pageant,
loud as any stream,
bright as blackbirds singing in the hedge,
before the storm ate up the sky,
before you came, before you left.

Then all the birds fell silent,
stones rattled in the stream,
dreams fluttered into dusk
like frightened autumn leaves,
and the coloured pageants died.