On Falling Out of Love with a Book Called ‘Howl’

We of the flowers
unnoticing
grew old

cleaned the wind off our hair
scraped the sun from our eyelids
shut the moon in a jar

and left quietly
stepping over our broken bodies on the floor.

Sometimes
in a moment’s mist
we hear

the echo of a roar
tumbling down-wind

old howl of acid truth
gone
quaint and sweet as clothes we used to wear.

The robes fray
the sandals rot
we’ve chopped our long long hair.

Now
to tell you ‘Love’
I hand you tears
not flowers.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1981

First published Turnstyle

14/10/81

Note: I recently did a quiz which told me that I'm 'a total hippie' – that, even if I no longer use incense or wear sandals, I have the soul of a hippie! I admit it. But it made me remember this piece, written 27 years ago, at which point I was feeling middle-aged and wistful for the past. Why is it that middle-aged felt old, while old age feels so deliciously young? (Btw I never stopped using incense and if I ever really fell out of love with 'Howl' it was strictly temporary.)