The nostalgia weaves itself like clockwork,
smothering you like mist at the edge of the sea,
where arthritic hulls rock under the gull calls
and Scorpio’s baleful gaze. When the buds
of the oak leaves have unfurled and send
crescents of light to a shaded trail, when the sun
ignites in the unknown corners of the morning,
when you remember the wild, capricious thing
you used to be, with eyes full of silver and hands
wreathed in bloom.