Sitting there looking at you,
Looking at me.
What is seen is what the mind wants to see,
As you look at me, looking at you as the mirror clouds over.
Juggling apples and oranges, toss in a pineapple,
Into the fruit salad of which an aroma rises.
It filters through your nostrils and you want a taste,
But as you begin to fathom the journey across to the orchard that is.
I turn and run, to get lost in the vast array of trees that spread out,
Into the greenery and into the sweet plumes of scents that continue to rise.
Beckoning me to places that you would like to follow,
Yet each foot is carefully planted on the soil which has been sown for you.
Seeds of expectations, roads to travel - not for you, but for?
Hermetically sealed, each foot of yours stands still and your eyes dance,
Over each small hill and into each crevice, looking.
Looking for something that could very well be me,
Or it could be anything you have wished each day of your life to be.
But the familiar odour of your orchard is all your senses know,
Although they care to travel, it is only a wish amongst all wishes.
Into the street I have turned and the soil changes transforming into a dirt road,
Something yet untouched by the hand of modern machinery.
Marvelling at this, a land so untouched sure I think of you standing,
Way behind, somewhere once upon a time ago.
Standing and pondering, looking over horizons asking yourself questions,
Of what the hillsides look like on the other side, and whether there is in fact a harbour.
For it has been read, it has been spoken of between you and I,
It was my wish to find it, which germinated into a seed that implanted itself somewhere I cannot name,
Yet for you it was a dream, and like all dreams the vision fades into a memory.
Of what could have been in the possibility of time had you desired it possible,
Yet you reclined on your rocking chair, took the pipe in your hand, lit it and watched the sun rise and fall.
At each turn, as the streets change colours and feature variations of scents,
My feet stumble upon a marketplace and I hear a voice - very much like yours.
It speaks of the best fruit, the most spectacular colours and for only half the price two bags may be bought,
Nearing it, yet fearing it, my eyes dart forth to catch one glimpse,
Into the orchard that is spread out on the stall and the colour red catches my eye.
Red shiny apples all in a row,
Red the colour speaking of passions, passions of which you and I used to know.
The smell so fragrant yet so bittersweet,
Taking me to the very place where you have planted your feet.
In one second, plumes of thoughts that swirl up around me and want to take me to their home,
Yet it is not my place, it may have once been.
A memory in the marketplace,
What you and I could have been.
