As the sun comes up
On the evening of our
Pleasures we find
Ourselves mistaken.
Not even names
Passed our lips,
Our mouths too

Eager with enjoyment,
The long run away
Of silent delight
That always seems
To satisfy.
Now the road home
Is endless

And ungainly,
Littered with
That might
As well be prayers
And if we see one another again

I hope that friendship,
At least, could blossom
And let the warm summer
Invite us into memory
That would last
A lifetime,
Our eyes

Sated with pleasure
That cannot be replaced,
The one moment
Of elation driven home,
The sweet goodbye
Of sorrow
That has us walking

By each other,
Memory defunct
But the taste of our
Mouths intact,
Fresh pleasures.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.

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