Beware — Nostalgia

Beware — Nostalgia

 

 

There is no flame.

No explosive ignition.

No crackling spark,

or giggling combustion.

 

No beginning no end.

 

It tumbles like fairy fluff.

Flickers like wind blown embers,

unannounced into the light

to trap you in knitted northern Decembers.

 

As the beginning sneaks closer to the end.

 

With the hushed breath of dust disturbed

from Bangkok to Beijing, London to Paris,

along familiar lanes, boulevards and railway tracks

it clouds your thought so you cannot tell what is.

 

Until the beginning feels much like the end.

 

In a fug, of old photographs, a musty aroma

rises from ticket stubs, posters, newspaper clippings,

unearthed from suitcases, worn out backpacks,

to drag you back to forgotten beginnings.

 

Beginnings that seem closer than the end.

 

With warm hooks beneath the skin

and peppered kisses it holds and suffocates.

Like a sun warmed feather pillow

Held firm across your face.

 

And the beginning really is the end.

 

 

 

D L Hume 1st Quarter 2017