Yesterday's moments are suddenly gone
as the rain washes summer away,
wets the leaves and seeps into our clothes.
The past is grey, low cloud hovering
and hiding what we want to remember.
Somebody I used to be is waving back
across time and saying goodbye,
the quiet hero of my own devising,
waiting for space to be and to have been.
Surviving is not living, the ghost
at the crossroads is me, full of indecision
and longing, paying lip service to self.
Slow blink, heart flutter, cold eskimo kiss.