I would be that cloud
spread grey upon the mountain top
lounging along the ridges
like Cleopatra herself
surveying this valley
on a sight seeing excursion
in autumn.
There from the heights
I would gaze into this valley
where first I opened my eyes
in a time of peace and plenty,
and one day to see with final gaze
all that is born must die.
Sometimes memory takes me prisoner,
it makes me step into
the warmth and brightness
found in that childhood kitchen,
the gathering cold of season changes
once more creeping with icy fingers,
leaving the country darkness deep around,
excluded from that warm and safe abode.
There are times when Time is a bus
whose steps I descend
to slip quietly away
like that cloud
into memory filled
with light still shining bright.
