Camomile

I understand the magic of illuminated cities,
I really do, I see it in those reflections
And dancing shadows you don’t notice;
And yet I try to remember the last time I smelled wild camomile,
I believe it was next to the motorway,
A holographic shadow of adolescent years,
Of rubbing our hands against wildflowers in the fields,
Of the taste of those summer evenings;
But I traded one magic for another,
Choosing contentment over being torn
Between great happiness and greater pain;
Camomile was lost in moving times,
Yet lingers on in streetlamp nights.