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 first quarter 2017

 

(First Published Blue Nib Literary Magazine)

 

Where are you now

 

I gaze up the hill,

across the river,

where a low sun

drapes the shore

in the final shroud of day.

 

And ask, where are you now?

 

I check my watch.

It ticks and turns.

A machine above your head

Shows no time remaining.

You are always late.

 

Where the fuck are you now?

 

I held your still warm hand,

stroked your mohawk arm,

anointed your forehead

and whispered in you ear,

I'll catch you on the other side

 

So tell me where are you now?

 

I breathe the empty dark.

The glow of a late night joint.

An empty bottle.

Slainte mvath.

And I wonder

 

Where are you now?

 

I step out for a piss.

As you would have done.

A shooting star passes,

I tell no one.

There is no one to tell.

 

At least now old mate, dear friend, I know where you are now.

 

D L Hume 1st Quarter 2017