Yesteryear

There’s something strange within

my head beyond familiar sheen.

So scarcely can I banish remnants,

chanting words that weighty lean.

Limping with indecency and dusty

from misuse, the actions passed

leer wickedly across the yard,

running loose.

Haggard fronts they flaunt smeared thick

to outshine hidden lairs;

curdled by the dreams that died

in well-worn rocking chairs.

Impatient petticoats combust

before a crowd of hesitations,

beneath whose lace haste’s scent

leaves room for foul imaginations.

Cheers are muffled by the sound

of rusty wheels on rock, while

brocade land mines frame my pain  

and weave their spell of talk.

Here I sit and bate dismay

and lure in thoughts of doubt,

but soon I’ll up and trot away

in search of different route…

Jennifer Burnside