Was it gloaming that called,
To say the list of things
That it had held within?
The day was a parachute,
Gliding and swaying
Above the lush green cover,
In an airy expanse, breathing
Dust and hopes and plans,
For a time they had never seen.
But moments slipped like sand,
Past salted waters and a forlorn beach,
Waiting for none knows who.
Perhaps a next that might never be...
But still they farm seeds of
Until Next,
Naivete at its peak.
The summer you had wished for,
Dances in plumes of gemstones
In your yard, in your home.
Yet you look at the winter clouds
That have not been formed
Until next summer then?
The winters brush and rustle
In fields and playgrounds
And in cold roads and lanes.
Yet you look at the leftover
Cola and frozen limewater cubes,
Preserved for a summer
That passed away, when
You looked elsewhere.
Until next winter then?
When is the now,
If there's always a next vow?
If 'until next' is the trend,
A standard held in gold, then
Until When?
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