knights of summer

there was one day last summer you called me your knight of the flowers.
stood on a high street knee deep in my broken dreams and
your stupid smirk and all our woes left at the school gates
(for our freedom was well fought and taken and
examinations of some societal nature fell away
from minds filled full with nothing much in particular)
you smiled like you knew when the world would end
and you named me your knight of flowers.

(in my heart, you had come like a storm.)

the autumn came.
and you barely spoke a word to me.
passing me in streets we once knew together and looking down like I was nothing
but the grey gum at our feet
but the discarded McWrapper rolling away down the street
but the almosts
the could have beens
the should have beens
(we were never the will have beens, my dear.)
I had become nothing more than the fog
that settled around the top of the tower, clinging like a seasoul.

you called me your knight of the flowers.
but he was always a knight of the summer time.
the knight of the flowers was made to sit sweetly among forget me nots.
he was always made to be held in the burning embrace of sunshine.
he was always made to be barbeque bank holidays
and drinking outdoors in twilight
to be golden skin and brightly coloured hair, a thousand words under his skin
and rounded cheeks grinning and kissed.

(I am still your knight of the flowers.
But you are no longer my storm's lord, love.)