Poetry: Thoughts at 30 by David Dumouriez

Thoughts at 30

Mine is not the sun,

 

nor more the scent

 

of just-cut grass, and

 

not the air that

 

carries it along.

 

 

The colours are not mine:

 

the blues and greens

 

that frame our lives;

 

the mix that we interpret

 

through the day; the shades

 

the careful see. 

 

 

I cannot claim the wind, 

 

nor think that it 

 

pursues me singly.

 

 

The rain I hear or feel’s 

 

just liquid drops - there

 

to fall, to stop, 

 

to come again. 

 

 

The night I’ve trod and loved,

 

companion to a thousand 

 

schemes and scrapes, 

 

exists insensible for all. 

 

 

The cities that I’ve swelled 

 

subsume my shape.

 

The structures stay and thrive; 

 

the dwellers die. 

 

 

The words that feel my warmth

 

with coldness flow, indifferent

 

to the best and worst attempts.

 

 

What’s left is all there is. 

 

All and all.

 

Enough to halt connection, 

 

temper verve?