So our lives we live
they pass
in and out of light
by clock-hand determination
colours that trick memory,
but in that passing of ghost
and swing of scimitar
at the back of beyond
that’s recollection
in the foregrounding
of happier things
delight somersaults
from forgettable nights
and uneasy dawn
as mushroom and tree
as the waiting on waters
the catch-n-pass
of tender times.
[Inspired by the photography of Rukshan Abeywansha]
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