Old

Late in the afternoon

doors seem to close quickly.

Ways break into ochre,

trees black like hours.

Burnt clocks of memory

strike like tired foxes.

Lazy as a launching swan

my steps falter,

I am a refugee in my own time.

As the light weakens,

and the air cools,

the pictures peel off like skin

and fall at my feet.

Reviews

[Kay]

My favorite line in this piece : "Burnt clocks of memory strike like tired foxes". I could visualize it exactly with the intended mood. Excellent imagery!