Heirloom Pendant of an Ash-Tracked Snow
If I do not hear you leaving by the door...
The nearness here of this yet questions when
I know you will not come so back again,
Nowise the same as you were there before.
My own reflection, centred at its core
On knowing each trace of strangeness, will disclose
At day's height deviation less morose
From what it knew of you to what you were:
If you re-enter, lost before the rose
Before the rainyard seeks its prismed floor.
And if the bud bows down before the bow,
Through myriad sapphire grasses' cobalt trance,
Could one slow beat that blew return the dance
Of what you were translated into show?
My mirror's mine, that prismed each mischance
The room breathes, register, each second soon ago,
Calls seasons centuries that sky askance-
And weave you weft there closer, when you go.
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Other stories by Iain James Robb
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Cognitively I have barely a clue, but I like the tone with its seemingly random flashes of color and intensity. *
I read the title again, and then the poem, again, and things are coming into focus. The poignance. **
My own reflection, centred at its core
On knowing each trace of strangeness, will disclose
At day's height deviation less morose
From what it knew of you to what you were:
I read it out loud and it was so pretty and colorful.
Thabnks, folks. The subject of the poem is fairly simple. The narrator, losing his lover, mourns that if she ever returns she will have aged a lot. His own reflection's aging would be less abrupt to him because he's daily used to it. The poem is about the way nostalgia freezes missing people in a realler than real reality that isn't actually reality. This poem is typical of any new stuff I'll be doing. I call these new poems my discordant little clocks.