RUIN
We played
in that old ruin,
Mark,
Sylvie, Dev and I,
Threading
childhood dreams
Through
something broken:
Truncated
walls, a single arch,
Lost
purpose, masquerading as romance.
I led
because I talked the best.
The others
took direction,
Indifferent
or desiring,
Through laughter
cracked by cruelty
Wrapped in
nature’s greening stance.
We grew up
and unfurled.
Mark
dreamt, Dev dared,
I wound up
in my words,
Flirting
with truth and Sylvie
More fragile
than her beauty.
Nothing was
settled, we only
Played for
time, revolving
In that
other ruined structure
Called the
world.
Our hopes
were vague,
All focused
on survival,
Far too
hung up to grieve
The missed
stop of arrival.
Fast
forward on to now -
Mark lost,
Dev dead
On London
Sylvie, adrift in
drunken dactyls,
Twice
deserted (only once by me).
I still
have my stories, my dissolving dream.
Thread end,
dead end, back
To that
eternal present
Beneath the
mouldering arch,
For failure
not my own,
Where grey
and green rewind:
I am still
living in the left behind.
Nature at
least does not discriminate
Between what
is and some more pristine state.
The ruin carries
on, the teller tells,
Each
prospering their shadow-selves.
© Wendy
Mewes
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