Time

Small things, a passing word, a smile, the way the sun
Catches on the raindrop'd leaf, small things
Are all it takes to bring the vagrant memory
To mind, and slowly, perhaps, some part of one
Of those memories creeps out from between
Closed eyelids, and slides quietly down
The weathered and aged skin, and pauses,
Suspended between the inward void and the
Infinite outside world, before being swept away
By an impatient hand.
And embarrassed, friends stand by, and
Utter bland and hopeless words, designed to
Comfort or suppress, which is not clear,
But always the words that are meaningless
Chatter and fight, the cacophony hiding the
Soft whisper of treasured remembrance.
That, my friend, is the truth of the rain that
Stands on the snowdrop.

© 2ndwitch, 26/11/14