Poem - untitled

Childhood is light and wisp-turned
its vapours waft and whirl in eddies at
the base of life, dwelling as a current which only occassionally
brushes the hairs on our forward striding calves.
The voice of childhood is dim, nightblown -
one might easily mistake it for the wind
it plays against the cheek
with the
softness of a mother's hand
and whispers to us
with words
we no longer possess -
Sometimes, photograph in hand,
the child smiles up into our chest
our lungs fill with mornings,
crossed distances,
we grow luxurious
in our being and feel ourselves infinite
draped across time
like a satin sash in the breeze

but then

when our eyes truly meet those of the boy
we exhale all connection
and there remains only the sound of our own breathing
carrying our consciousness onwards
away from all form and beginning.