“I wonder much if one could paint,
all colours one night-sky reveals;
depths to which streetlights faint,
or through layers that mist conceals.
Beaming porches quickly pass me by,
like distant dreams of lovers lost;
buried somewhere deep in winter’s shy,
though, still wishful like morning frost.
And then my thoughts travel to you,
like platforms, small, warm and still;
memories of whom fading eyes long drew,
then slept and submitted to time’s will.”