The wind tickles the damselfly –
with one bright flick it is gone.
It paints the sky with imagery
we are what we have done.
The wind rattles the ash trees.
It troubles water. It strips the leaves.
The wind erases your stories.
It takes them away, one by one.
Gently the wind touches your hair.
Now that your time is over
it is returning your life to air.
It’s a shame that we cannot recover
what we have thought, what we have seen.
To restore memory, touch card to
screen.
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