L'Air du Temps

      

 

 

 

 

Petal-frail, revenant,

echoes of bygone times and places

shadows, flashbacks,

storylines not ours revived,

trailing atmospheres

of honeysuckle love and grief,

the muse of something lost and longed for

chased down a corridor of mirrors,

carriage wheels turning,

hidebound travelling to Avalon,

impartial streets glimpsed

in patent twilight, the cabby charmed

by dancing love-light in the eye,

rapt reunions and nights

of molten passion, feather-bedded,

walking on Eden's air

in clandestine groves,

waltzing to inner melodies

under canopies of blossom,

nuptial-white. Perfect irony!

Spectral fountains, silken water

and the benevolent ether

that promised forever

and must be for ever

though long lost and gone,

the bottle stoppered, done!

 

 

How does it then,

the apparition of that scent,

carry on a zephyr's breath

haunting the nostrils of the mind

invading the sinuses

as piquantly and potently

as Proust's bitten madeleine cake?

 

 

Why the craving now

for what is ephemeral

and merely subliminal

a sensation sketched in air

inspired, conjured, distilled

by a Parisian alchemist

from summer's scented ash?