(Whilst considering the current malaise amongst many of our young
I was brought to remembering my teenage years).
Long half-hearted shadows whittle away the afternoon sun,
as cooling clouds assemble too and bruise a timid sky,
as if a threadbare woven cloak had fallen from its peg,
and with its heavy weave, borne down to stifle summer.
Lust’s passion in the grass thus spent, we also slowly cool,
our backs tattooed with twigs and leaves and dust,
your secret hair smeared damply flat, glistens
as you slide away to search for clothes.
© Graham Sherwood 5/2010
