They say that every seven years
Our cells are replaced and
We are each reclassified.
When Napoleon lay at Boulogne
For a year—did he not dream
Through his boyhood eyes?
They say he loved the coast.
I found solace in a nearby well.
The verses sprung sprightly,
Spraying from the curse of
A restless chest. Healing
Leaves wilted when that
Very well dried.
They say that every seven years
Our cells are replaced, and
Fortune grants another try.
10/03/2018, Theseus (For my grandfather).
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Where the lanes of the old chancery
Cross gutters like Christ
With holes in hands
Some thousands of years;
Where the barren and brittle
Cast needles in hay
From dawn till dusk
Some thousands of years;
Where the poets, they dreamt
Of slow dancing in halls
Collapsing to dust
Some thousands of years;
What hope there was we could not tether
For nothing we loved was loved forever.
21st of December 2015, “Chancery Lane.”
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