Somewhere, a Sunday, or maybe a June,
A little bit of morning left over from noon,
The curtains are open, or maybe they’re not,
There’s something familiar I’ve almost forgot.
A little bit here, a little bit gone,
A half-remembered face in a half-finished song.
Wasn’t it summer a minute ago?
So why does the garden look covered in snow?
Perhaps it was yesterday, perhaps it was years,
Perhaps all the colours have run into tears.
And photographs smile with their little white teeth,
There’s a girl in the corner who looks rather like me,
With summer still caught in the hem of her shoes,
I wonder whatever became of her too.
Oh, the days have a way of becoming the same,
With a different arrangement, a different name.
And the years bleed together like ink in the rain,
Till tomorrow and yesterday look much the same.
A little more distant, a little less clear,
The sound of a voice that I almost can’t hear,
And round goes the afternoon, round goes the room,
A little more yesterday, a little less June.
Perhaps it’s still morning, perhaps it’s half-eight,
Perhaps I’ve been early, perhaps I’ve been late.
The clock has a face, but it doesn’t quite show,
And I’m sure there was something I wanted to know.
Leave a Reply