Pages

Friday 21 December 2012

Basis

Scent
The one last probable great imponderability
That calls you back into my life

Scent
That I can pick off the pages, or dissolve 
From another young woman’s photograph

Years have passed
Way beyond absolution
Arches of roses collapsed
Bicycle of joys trundled

Certain as the stones
Laid out before
We, as all others
Caught by institution

Scent
Homogeneous in a few lines of text
That neither you nor I wrote

Scent
Worthy of being named the great imponderable 
That rolls you back into my life