Town bells knolled in tall towers–
a countdown to the last hours.
The sound, like cragged lines in
rugged planes, stuck out like veins
of earth reaching for the skies,
almost at the finish line.

We were pink leaves, fresh as dawn,
capturing the morning sun
in our lips as light, blue rain
tiptoed into the refrain.
Midst flower bloom and spring breeze
time slows down but doesn’t freeze.
Leaves fade from pink to rust and,
drift off in the autumn dusk.

We wore wishbones in loose strings
around our necks, like late spring
love songs, when colours fade
from new friends to renegades.
Lost in the fog, we became
grey shadows within the frame
of an old Monet sunrise.
Clouds tumbled in cotton skies.

When days are redolent of
sea mist in the hidden cove–
where warm, luminescent waves
lapped our toes near coral caves–
ghost towns drown in phoenix flames,
and walls crack, we’ll meet again.