Though alive with deeper fire,
youth’s inflaming haunts me still;
For the hearth where once it burned now lies
in a half-light faint and still.
Yet if, by chance, a gust should blow by there,
o’er the ashes cold and grey,
the embers all at once are roused.
From underneath the ghost of fires past
there surges ardent flame,
sweet as mayfly cloud does from the earth
when showers deign to fall;
strong as whisky draught,
and whispering as gently as the rain.
Though the embers simply slumber,
though their burning lingers still,
still I yearn that there may surface soon,
from underneath the grey,
that lively heat, that fervent light
that stirs the soul,
that, in the darkness of the night,
flares high and radiant,
and melts the lifeless
Youth, your inflaming
Away now he flies, off into the blue,
White-winged and shining, gleaming bright.
Away, two birds race, one aloft in the wind,
And the other ‘neath the sea, gliding, glistening white.
Calm, noble movements, every single one twinned.
They circle, untethered.
The sight smites the heart, having many years weathered,
In its darkness, and weakness, and greed.
And it longs for the hour it’ll be freed.
A scent arose, slowly, softly.
Powerful, yet not unpleasant – charismatic. It poured into him, gentle and commanding, tempting him into a drowsy swoon, sweeping away all thought. For all its strength, it had, nevertheless, a tenderness, one that reminded him of friends, laughter, of smile and of affectionate glance.
And fainter, tempering the musk was another, a sweetness, a quiet burst, like the blush of a rose.