Deep beneath a pillowed sky, there A restful restlessness abides Nestled in a perennial hill Whose sentinel trees raised their hands, White with subtle deference, They do not usher the world flowing βhind, But show me an islet high above time. I sat there in ponderance at the stagnation of clouds Holding on one end a gold string of a kite My thoughts tethered to those ghosts, Those wights, sitting amongst me, those by-gone eras And down, on me, some vague horror weighted To them it was the Stones that made them feel dated I thought I could feel slippage, some loss of traction They? They bore a whole lifetime without Satisfaction. The breeze smells of gossip and Jaeger on their lips; Everything is on point: dances, romances, localist quips. Whoever would have guessed Memories ablur could be the most vivid? Such, I suppose, is an art form insipid. I had to step away from this field of time It had overtaken, that shadow of mine All the trees now, bow and they bend Prostrate, like a weeping willow. When they step out into the world, A bath of gold in the dusk of their lives Shall fall before their feet, denude from their shadows To run on ahead.