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My Poem

Iridescent light, that thought
a memory to clutch at.
Sand will slip through fingers, but
for those that remain, an odd,
Clinical scent, from somewhere
sometime long ago, and I half-remember,
Feeling but not hearing
that familiar, distant peal.
Lukewarm hours spent just sitting,
Its careful, polished metal
somehow an escape from thinking
and a sanctuary from thought.
Deep reverberation, as of laughter,
Only kindly, rotten fruit is
cast away.
These moments will remind us
that grey is also bright.

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