The flutter of wings through an open window,
the movements of light across the floor.
Our lives, like the shifting shadows
that haunt the late afternoons
of the days when we are no more.
These photos, these memories,
these senses of all that we are.
We hold them against us
as if they were proof against
the power of the shifting sand.
My name, my lover, my family, my friend,
all on the carousel that turns
and frees them all again.
Meteors and arc-lights, we stand against an end
that shifts like light and shadows
and absorbs us all and then....
Every treasured feeling rendered into air
every cupboard full of memories
to be opened empty and bare.
The turning wheel of transience
the scythe that cuts the air
we of momentary consciouness
are the patterns on the rides
at an endless entropic fair.
gallagher
Christchurch
07Aug2016
— Copyright 1965-2016 by Dennis Gallagher —