Those village evenings of youth

Those village evenings of youth 

Christmas in the stone-walled village

was yellow lamp light and empty night streets

between the valley of the chapel and the

hill of the pub, bright and murmuring.

My salve lime mouth-watering ways

alongside the slide side of the boys

who trod in unison through the night

of thin beer full of moonshine and, beyond 

finger tips, the girls who gathered gossip.

Not a door opened;

no light spilled in goodbye or welcome;

and what lingered on the quiet waiting

night, never did the village speak of it;

so we said "see you tomorrow" 

and free of sorrow of the day we

walked to our firesides and toasted

the bread and butter

of a rancid furrow.

A teeth-on-edge swallow, that

lasted for I know not how long;

and now on the other side, and

distant, I gag upon a tear,

and linger over the taste of

a youth gone waste.

Do I shiver at the scalpel that

will decapitate my youth;

or the rusty nails that bleed

in sanguinity as they exsanguinate the

feelings that should be left to 

drain into the coarse sands of youth.

However pallid the patina

on the silver days appears to be,

is it all the false heartache?

A delusion, that I cannot

return to to ask: did we?

Did I?

Really?