The New European - - Eurofile -

Clocks turned back will spring win­ter on us.

Through­out the day a last mem­ory of sun filled evenings as I wind the sum­mer back, back to the sea en­cir­cling those slow days and to a glint of green and the dark red of flow­ers in my mother’s yard.

The evenings were walked on prom­e­nades clouded with per­fume, the tourists thin frocked and ea­ger eyed, tout­ing their ease.

Be­fore win­ter dark-fall, I think again of the friend’s farm where gorse lined tracks smelling of sweet milk trail val­leys and climb sheep-ward.

I think of that long sum­mer misted morn­ing when tear stained we made our good­byes, as with sud­den speed the boat moved and your wav­ing was gone.

On sum­mer time’s last day I walk a city park, note pre­cisely the time light fades and in the evening doze in a quiet room. Win­ter rat­tles the mem­ory, know­ing that to­mor­row the dark­ness will come sooner.

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