whirl

life gradually descended into a whirl of countries
and airports – each of us a traveller standing
wearing but the clothes on our backs
owning but the suitcase in our hands
walking into cavernous halls
emblazoned brightly with the word Departure
or perhaps some other more dingy buildings
but nonetheless we put our foot in purposefully
departing through into transit areas of no man’s land
for those brief hours coalescing into days
of our life where we are
somewhere, nowhere and not yet somewhere
and perhaps sometimes you would write, something
on random scraps of paper, or perhaps
something more purposefully brought –
I cannot fathom. some random sentences
written, misplaced in time and place.
from a person which wasn’t there anymore
from a place departed
from too many days ago
about something probably almost forgotten.
and still we would write, if only to remember
something precious, or somebody
who wasn’t there.
I should never see those lovely trees
that once bore those leaves:
never see them grow, age, sway in the wind
nor feel their bark with my fingers, stand
on their raised roots.
and I would be sad that in some ways
I would never recall that in my mind
nor hear you explain
what
it meant

whirl

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