At Lunch - Long Time Ago

Inside a small bistro,

that overlooks the ocean,

that holds no memories,  

nor vision of a future;

At nearby white clothed table,

in that long departed afternoon,

the time was having glass of port,

relaxing quietly and dozing.

Enjoying wordlessly with you

the frivolous, white, luscious hairs

of bold, tall waves that never sleep,

to dance on their appealing shoulders.

Into the darkening

September sky,

colossal, made of clouds old gods 

were fighting.

We called our past

(that day our maître d')

to bring us second glass of wine, 

before the day was really over.

That past was young,

and careless, foolish -

so full with hope

and unfulfilled, sweet dreaming.

We paid our bill.

The wine was over.

We tipped our past

then we were gone.