Time at the speed of memory
goes along the wash to where
a pond swallows all
it receives: conversation fragments; smiles
that once shone in the dark;
a winter coat lined
with frost, and a whisper
still trying to become a whole word.
Down it all goes, into
the archives, shadows dissolving
under water, into the deepest
           while mockingbirds
in honeyed light
drink insects from the air.


David Chorlton

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