time, and again

It is the past.
It smells like stale smoke, the echoes of laughs that
were once as bright as the stars but now linger like
dust on your fingertips. It is an ancient and sunken
piano, with a distant note that echoes through the
air, an empty hymn through crumbled walls and
washed out windows;
Faded photographs, claimed by the earth, staring
longingly into the skies. It is a smile, distant and
bittersweet, the aftermath of the breeze on your skin
and the sunshine on your lips, the aftertaste of a
lingering kiss of which taste you forgot.
It is the past.

It is the present.
It smells like the sharp trace of mist at 6 am, the
splash of ice cold water on a hot summer’s day. It is
the lazy hum of bumblebees, the rustling of green
grass and a sky of travelling birdsong, a hopeful
whistle in the wind, the waving willows under a
blazing sun;
Stones, skittering and dancing across the crystal
blue lake, sun beams peering around valley
corners. It is a thin shirt, damp and drying on skin,
tears rolling, cool, down dirt-stained cheeks, closed
eyes, an echoing laugh, over the mountains.
It is the present.

It is the future.
It smells like the salty tang of the sea, the ebbing
waves spread endlessly beyond, the cry of the gulls
in the distance. It is the clouds drifting between the
rolling hills, the meadow, the plains stretching
forever on, ashes washed away by the whispering
A light, floating upwards past the lip of the earth,
shining forward a beaten dirt path, a river, curving
the lands through the recesses of time. It is the
voice of the skies on the horizon, it is each small
step, it is the cool dirt on calloused soles, it is eyes
lifting upwards, forwards.
It is the future.

(written 13/05/14)