Confession

I should tell you,
tonight
I have a mind for confession,
and ask your
unholy blessing for I
have sinned.
You see,
some time
recently
I let my guard slip
and
quite willingly
I let the demons in.

How long have I known you now?
They asked,
and how
pray
did we meet?
for they were sure they could not
remember a time
when your
sweet presence
did not dominate
my life.

Hush, I told them,
for shame,
be quiet, hold your baited tongues!
But alas,
too late,
too late again
to see that just like
leaves
turning colour
in the wet autumn
haze,
just like rosy summer days,
and fevered,
gypsy nights,
their impulse and their
basest urges
were right.

All the best things in life
are only summers long,
are subject to whims and
transitory things like
racing hearts
and ticking clocks
and freedom
and faith
not long to be heard,
to be touched or tasted,
or seen.

And just like that it seems
you make a better memory
than truth,
a better dream.