How soon before my lovely days are gone?
How soon before I see this place no more,
and have no more time beneath the sun;
nor time beside this ever-whispering sea;
nor hear the wind whisper amongst the reeds;
nor see the tall plane trees upon the hills,
where soft-eyed goats call as they freely roam;
nor see the crimson hibiscus flowers you pick
each day and place in a vase on my desk
so I think of you as I write my tales
of shepherds piping their lost sheep to fold.
The flame of life burns quickly in the lamp;
passion and love and longing and hot tears
consume and all too soon a cold wind blows
upon our hearts and takes us far away
and we are found no more in this old world,
although the moon turns – searching every night
and the stars patiently shine on and on.
© R J Dent (2009)