Supposed to have lived it,
memoirs red inked,
mother of all invention.
Go on, test me.
Any year, any place, any time.
I can even name the sublime days I wasted,
each and every one,
a bunch of sights, smells, tastes long gone.
The rest blurred, save one deserted lane,
soft rain falling over silence,
the distant calling thrush I thought I heard.
not one spoken word, I'm singing in the rain ,
while walking down an empty lane,
accompanying songs of birds.