Under the sycamore
the dry seeds
worn to dust
thousands of them
from a single tree

I sit in the shade
and look out
across the meadow
where away
in the distance
a young couple
is sunbathing

This is still summer
and the leaves
are still green
and their flesh
is still supple
and unmarked
by time

A universe of light
and cinders :
all things turn to ash
and ash to dust
and every memory
will be forgotten

Salad days pass
the young grow old
even language tires
of endless repetition
All things are senseless
all life unless
imbued with love

John Lyons