Robert Verdon, #395, sunlight tickles dust

pensive dust

an old classroom in

an old memory

haunts me like a book

because it is me

cones on a bough

trickle thought treacle

dust sunlight tickles

cycle sky through green sunglasses on a bright blue day

distant violin on a street

I have never been

where those children I would have loved

to play with but never knew at

that age lived

in another century

maybe in Paris

where I have never been

where I cannot go

not that Paris

hooks and sickles of dust

not ever