Post by tigerlily on Oct 13, 2009 21:23:52 GMT
She said, "You can never go back",
although you may look back in anger.
The past is a foreign country, and we
were all different then.
Once I saw through the eyes of
a child, a child who was frightened of
this foreign land, land of hill and
heather and wide, open spaces.
Now I am in thrall to those mountains and
the crash and drama of the breaking waves.
Waves that swirl and ebb and flow with the
breathing of the moon.
That huge, yellow moon that we watched rise one
night, one night so long ago. So long ago that
it seems that night belongs now to that
foreign country, that place to which we cannot return.
Always my heart yearns to return; to revisit places,
faces, once so familiar and dear. They are no longer
there. Their echoes remain, lingering,
echoed once again in the cries of the newborn.
And life goes on, as it ever has, as it will for
who can say how long. Yet still I long to return
to that past, that warm and loving past,
safe once more, secure and loved.
She said, "I am afraid. Afraid of that future,
that future that sucks and swirls and eddies
at my feet. All of my life still before me, yet
so much of it now left behind".
Yes, the past is a foreign country. Life was simpler
then. The future rolled ahead, spread out like the
fields in the valleys below those hills,
golden as the harvests in the fields.
But that future seems more grey than golden,
measured against the shades of the past. Those
shades that haunt me in unguarded moments,
when memories flicker and flare.
"I shall not be afraid of the future, I have dreams
of my own to fulfil". She nods with a fierce
concentration, and strides off to do war with
her fears.
although you may look back in anger.
The past is a foreign country, and we
were all different then.
Once I saw through the eyes of
a child, a child who was frightened of
this foreign land, land of hill and
heather and wide, open spaces.
Now I am in thrall to those mountains and
the crash and drama of the breaking waves.
Waves that swirl and ebb and flow with the
breathing of the moon.
That huge, yellow moon that we watched rise one
night, one night so long ago. So long ago that
it seems that night belongs now to that
foreign country, that place to which we cannot return.
Always my heart yearns to return; to revisit places,
faces, once so familiar and dear. They are no longer
there. Their echoes remain, lingering,
echoed once again in the cries of the newborn.
And life goes on, as it ever has, as it will for
who can say how long. Yet still I long to return
to that past, that warm and loving past,
safe once more, secure and loved.
She said, "I am afraid. Afraid of that future,
that future that sucks and swirls and eddies
at my feet. All of my life still before me, yet
so much of it now left behind".
Yes, the past is a foreign country. Life was simpler
then. The future rolled ahead, spread out like the
fields in the valleys below those hills,
golden as the harvests in the fields.
But that future seems more grey than golden,
measured against the shades of the past. Those
shades that haunt me in unguarded moments,
when memories flicker and flare.
"I shall not be afraid of the future, I have dreams
of my own to fulfil". She nods with a fierce
concentration, and strides off to do war with
her fears.