The moon keeps it's good side to us,
It basks in the positive
Projecting joy and happiness.
But it conceals its darker side,
Draws upon the depths of the Dark.
This side is a mystery,
It wallows in a shady history
Shared only with
Its nearest and dearest:
Victims of the dark.
She makes no apologies for seeing the best in people.
It doesn't make her blind to their faults,
Merely more tolerant of them.
I'm coming to terms with my age:
Realising that memories are captives of Time,
That nostalgia is nothing but a hazy, rose tinted wallow of the mind,
And no matter how tightly shut my eyes
I'm never really back on my childhood street,
With the ever-present puddle,
The goalpost van,
Friends and our stupid siblings.
No, those times are lost to time.
But lost is fine,
They're out there, somewhere,
Unanchored and adrift,
And I can live with that.
That boy who lived my life
Before I became a man
Will be forever playing football
On that day of that summer,
For that day still exists on some plane
And will never end:
A source of great comfort,
As I age and fade into routine.
Bwrw fama, arol dy' Sadwrn braf,
Penwythnos dwytha union r'un fath.
The Barista did warn me,
But my home brewed hubris
Really blew up in my face
When my boiling hot porridge
Eruptively boiled all over the place.
Time's tight leash restrains ever more:
Youth runs without looking,
Adulthood takes in the views but not the meanings,
Parenthood siezes your social life and shakes it like a rattle;
A head-spinning temporal trauma
Leaving a void filled by nostalgia
- the middle aged man's worst enemy -
Sunny dazed days of drinking
In heavenly beer gardens,
Laughing without thinking.
But time yanks the leash,
Drags you back into today,
This hour, this minute,
To the ***** diaper
And your soiled hand.