This time opportunity comes
as a streak of light, thin and almost always
Prepared to fade, shining on
less things visible, more things imagined,
And things we once had but
have forgotten and now up for recovery.
This is made obvious, today,
by the enormous dry season canopy
Of rows and rows of old
trees, allowing only a few, through daggers
Of sunlight, the fortune to
glow: the graceful gathering of dust,
Slow talk on justice, and
long undisturbed stares to a misdemeanour-
Riddled past. In this
position, reach is only the venerable response
To the endless lengths of
recollection. How we try and how we fail
And how we never really
learn: reaching, bound by what we can remember,
Recovering what we cannot,
as they slowly lose light, drown,
And be one with the dark.
