The Smoke of Old Fires

Forty poems:

a season’s catalogue of lost moments:
a mother, unrequited love,
half a childhood,
a museum of toys and toils,
a thousand days ambered by words.

You can glimpse my hermitage
in my harbouring of clocks and memories,
chance the medusa in my maze.
Find me there and you will be as lost
as this hornless minotaur.

And the conclusion:
the lost as unattainable as
the smoke of old fires.

Patrik Gryst

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