Jack Scott writes

Like an Inkling, Lost

Something earlier than frost 
and colder than frost’s chill 
comes like an inkling, 
lost in backward sight and ill. 
Memory that’s yet to come 
creaks floorboards of the past 
from long ago until the end of last. 
Lanterns I have never lit 
glow anticipant of light; 
darkly pulsing there they sit, 
themselves in darkness out of sight. 
So come in light that is not burning -
dark tiptoe of a darker cat. 
I dread you at each corner’s turning; 
I long for you when time is flat. 
Where does our buried treasure lie? 
Where went the tears I could not weep? 
When did I say my first goodbye? 
What promise could I never keep?
 
Eyes of the Night -- Paolo Domeniconi