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