On a delicate autumn day I play
Nat King Cole, and the fifties come back,
and the world is young again.
Light yellow leaves fall on the footpath,
the warm wind shifts its direction,
and memories seep back, young love
not then drenched with sex, tender, lyrical,
enchanted, untouched by grim realities,
ready to drift on the caressing wind, lovingly.
This is a dream world, one day to be awakened
by rude shocks and successions of small failures,
and the smashing of unreal expectations.
Afterwards will come the slow realisation
that the world can be made better by thought and patience,
and the company of good friends, into something grander
and more powerfully beautiful
than we had ever imagined:
over time, constructed by dedication and intelligence,
communities of communities, open to God and each other,
to invention and progress,
at last, a credit to creation.