as each day fades,
electric specks of yellow
dab across the urban scene,
and pools of synthetic illumination
stain the streets like nicotine.
evening traffic plays follow the leader;
an endless stream of petrol-soaked metal
looking for an escape
from the ever-increasing concrete heaps.
as night spills ink on the greasy river,
and windows, one by one, cease beaming,
I lie in my bed and feel my way to dreamtime;
jumping on a smokescreen bus which speeds me
to a remembered green place far away,
where I can select the weather;
the time of day; my age;
and my company.
I always summon the same details;
sunshine, early evening, seventeen,
and you; king to my falling queen.
we sit beneath an oak tree bent with history;
our secrets hidden in the depths of its tactful trunk.
this year’s leaves discreetly absorb
this rising night’s intimate whispers;
as together we lean,
making believe it is the last time we will meet.
this is my perfect dream,
I will always
The Daily Post #Tree
©Jane Paterson Basil