When we were young

I had a master-plan to the grave
when we were young,
when the world was smaller than my fears
I’d send you flowers on paper
that needed neither vase nor tending
and every white expansive Sunday
promised “that” look
as I would write unacademic verse
and you, you would go gently grey
watching me listen
to the seasons begin their change.

© D. Archer. September 2013

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