Nostalgia

These silly syllables rolled off our tongues
slipping silently into the brains
of our friends,
bringing with them ideas long lost,
ideas of beauty, and poesy, and dreams unlost.

The trees waved, sparking off
temptation, the woods sparkled
with unknown libations. We took
our dreaming nights, walking
towards unknown sights. None knew
the way back to city lights.

“These silly syllables will be the end of us,” spoke
the wisest of the few, the rest treading
slowly back to their nests.

I looked around me and saw their faces,
the candlelight shone bright, his teeth
glimmered, his eyes a dull grey,
they warranted a pat on the shoulder,
a “come along” from an old
comrade.
We moved like whispers in the darkest night.

These silly syllables brought us
to a tree, a sycamore bent with
age and apathy. It had seen the best
pass by its boughs; it had seen them all
passing back below.

A single step changed our minds – we walked
on and nought said a word,
there was much too much at stake,
the children within asked for another time to argue.
We moved
under the cover
of darkness, lineages mixed
with mud and some united.

Now there were but few
who walked on, only
some who felt the call
of our childhoods.

He stopped me,
patting my shoulder. I realised
that none was around.
In a single syllable of unlearned innocence
my friend told me to hold back
and stay a while.

He showered my unbelieving senses
with reason and doubt, the furthest glimpse
of a light in the dark
was yet so far from known
city lights. We lifted our friendship,
said goodbye to our friends,
walked away again
towards the flicker of the neon lights.