falling star at dusk in the forest

teeth chattering, you spoke.
those long ago days
of time travelling through the telephone line.
bringing to me,
on a hot, sweaty and sultry night,
the magic of a place with snow.
snow ridden, snow pelted,
covering each tiny detail
with a tiny smattering of white dust.

fluffy doe eyed dreams,
the work of magic dust.

wet, wet concrete,
a wisp of smoke.
smell of burn,
assaulting my nostrils.

you asked.
to be laughed at in other circumstances,
but not as yet that day, not quite.
the TV that blared,
the denim top and red bell bottoms.
goodness, whoever wears that anymore!
relegated to some
obscure corner of the musky cupboard,
not those zipped up kinds.
just like you
in my memory.

when are you coming back from the land of ice?
to dine with me once more
and to talk god.

yesteryear songs.
the magical fountain,
an array of lights.
quite so now.

snatches of coffee,
coffee stains and spills.
drudgery.
heels clicking on tiles.
the return to the cubicle.

of red pens and mastery.

the plane that flew and brought things away.
the plane that flew and brought respite.
the other land of smiles.
concrete and dust, so cover your nose.
a touch a lingering memory.
the tendency to romanticize, to ruin
with expectancy.

friday came too quick.