The years, the years -

Time never falters.  I do, through the mist
of halting thoughts, dense vapours from a stretch
of lukewarm water in December, blank
grey faces of the houses I once knew,

all colour hidden. Only now and then
the clouds lift and the view regains its lure,
all the attractiveness it used to have
before the years took over.  On the wall

pink, faded roses, and the windows shine
and after dark low candles on the sill
and tinkling music bouncing from within
like bright new marbles streaming from a deep

torn trouser pocket.  Past the brittle glass
I see a face that I would recognise
if I could focus fast enough - but then
the years obscure my vision once again.