It was never assumed we'd understand
the bewildering things our young hearts dreamed of,
the obscure and fabulous, tales
told like secrets on a star starved night.

Yet eventual clarity, we assumed,
would arrive like children, a mortgage,
the pattern of empty afternoons and death.
We promised ourselves and waited for light.

Yet still the taunts of the not understood tantalise;
a seagull taking flight, the moon obscured
by your shadow falling above me, our children's cries,
the space between words where silence roars.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.

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