Age

Flooding the worn corridor
are lights, yellowing and dim.
Old scrubbed tiles lap against each other
gently; a smooth ebb.

The contrast fades, turning chrome yellow,
Metallic white and dull gray.
The hiss and crackle of the old radio
fizzes, and dies out.

Sound turns stereo, fused to signals
that transmit confusing images
to me.

Sight fills with exuberant colours,
but they hurt so much
I squeeze my eyes shut.

Yearn for the faded smell,
the rough fabric
and the tiny holes that permeate
my childhood to my mind.

Once upon a time, or once
a time; I sail gaily back
on the river of remembrance,
and recapture the fleeing butterflies.