Remember a day...

...before today, a time before this time - the endless summer to which we said goodbye and slowly closed the door.

The afternoons were warm when we walked in fields of perfumed air, among the wild flowers. The drone of buzzing bees drunk with ambrosial pollen, the twittering of birds ascending the azure empyrean towards the infinite numinous neverland of our glowing universe. Those days of someone else's love song that we sang to a nameless tune. It was always summer, it was always you. There was a time, before today, when time was younger than it has become, when all we wanted was for the days to never end, to raise our voices to the sun and sing the songs we knew so well. Before the memory became a memory, before time passed into the past, before the summer's end and the coming of autumn's chill.

I remember the swishing sound of luscious grass caressing the fluttering fabric of your summer dress, long green lascivious fingers stroking your tanned legs; and then the splittering-splash of a nearby stream gushing over old stones polished shiny by the endless flow of crystal water, as we walked through the meadows of an imaginary landscape; all in a dream, all in a dream...how do we hang on to a dream? 
Is it memory or illusion, was I really there?
I remember the day. The summer day and the lovely thunder of love.

Floating on the sound of summer air, warm and fragrant everywhere, you danced in the sunshine, trying to catch a butterfly in a field of poppies, cornflowers, ox-eye daisies and buttercups on a drowsy afternoon. For moment I was Monet in the fields of Argenteuil, before me a picture of melting colours and warm light.
You wanted to catch the sun but too much sun will burn. 

Your golden hair - burnished by the light and teased by the breeze - waved at me as you danced. And then it rained, so we ran to hide beneath the trees, your wet dress flowed over your body, painting you translucent blue, an Arcadian nymph bathing in the dappled light beneath the succulent, dripping trees. You smiled and kissed my mouth while the sky's tears sighed, cascading down among the leaves before falling languidly to the ground. Then the sun returned, shafts of gold radiated through the green canopy, illuming every raindrop into a glittering jewelled firmament. Standing beneath the sparkling vault of liquid stars we listened to the sound of clouds dissolving far above the green canopy, the song of the rain and the river washing away the perfumed peace of the humid, languid air.
The summer of a distant time, lost but for memory.

Now, in time present, it is midsummer. The night will be short, the air is warm again. Somewhere in the distance I hear the voice of golden bells sing the passing time, time that never turns back see what its passing leaves behind. Time has no memory, time has neither future nor past.
We remember what we leave behind, nostalgic ghosts of life before death. Memory is for the living, remembrance of time past, these sometimes unreliable memoirs of what we think we saw but are never really sure. Only in time present can memory exist and be recalled, there will be no memory to remember when the endless river is crossed.

...remember a day.