I have walked in lava fields
where colours runs like tears
down barren mountain slopes;
where fire has scorched the earth,
annihilating and devouring all.
Only a keening wind is heard,
a dirge for long-departed friends.
Only the eternal seeking...
for dandelion clocks
and autumn leaves
and children's kites
and poppy seeds
and washing lines
with dripping sheets,
for the long- flowing tresses
of a young girl's hair
and bamboo chimes;
for hats and veils
whipped from the heads
of sombre villagers
after Sunday Mass,
to bowl down alleyways
for scampering boys to chase.
These toys of the wind.
Forever lost, forever mourned.
