Elegy

A scattering of petals beneath the rosebush
and the rain pattering against the spread leaves
of sycamores, dark-shading; it has come to this,
our sunshine days all done, departing footsteps
along the gravelled terrace. We had held a magic morning
close between the palms of our two right hands,
held it there together, delighting in birdsong
and in the dancing flight of butterflies,
the new-born sun that sparkled through a myriad spider webs.
But we had held it too long, and too close,
and had required too much of it. And so
the golden flame guttered, and silken wings
fluttered brown-edged to the ground,
spent petals, to be crushed against the stones
by falling rain. And with them, our near-grasped dreams lay
stranded, lost and broken, beaten into the dirt
by our fears and vain ambition.