Maroon passes the window
and I wonder whether, for a single,
miraculous moment, I have been taken
to another hour, so many years earlier;
to another bus, so many miles away.

No. These blazers are not the same
as the ones we loathed when we lived
in blue. Now, the blue hangs in shadows,
with dust growing in place of fingerprints--
yours, mine: the marks of friendship.

Through this glass, I have found
a cruel mirror world--here are leaves,
damp, against the curb, yet their colour--
their colour, that is the thing. Instead of green,
or gold, or even that dull brown, they are purple.

Here, even nature preens itself,
somehow adopting these exotic shades
which so mar what I know to be true.
Do you remember kicking those orange piles
with black shoes? They wear white trainers now.

But perhaps I can soothe myself, knowing
that darkness will bring a blanket color
to blazers, leaves, shoes, all. This
world cannot be avoided, and memories

cannot be forgotten; all must live together

so that I may know, remember, and act
as a living being must.