I write the date, upon the sheet,
Then do the daily round.
I stare at it, in disbelief,
The past cannot be found.

I climb the stairs, and close the valve,
place the lock inside the hasp.
I blink an eye, two decades gone,
Too impossible to grasp.

I drop the needle and find the groove,
a smile upon my face.
The vibe so rich, the pathway back,
So vivid in its trace.

Upon the stool I sit and thrash,
Limbs work in sweet accord.
When it began, three decades? More.
With time I could afford.

In summer sun, in early morn,
a pigeon calls my name.
And stirs in mind a younger me,
with prospects there to claim.

The march of time, the grains of sand,
Relentlessly they fall.
They make the sound of voices past,
I surrender to their call.