As if he has lost his memory
some synapses down, circuits shot out,
areas gone dark
so he’s reaching into cloud
his hands pulling back
that will tell his time
Those blurred days are still alive
as all ghosts are
image, flesh, spirit, word –
wild days threaded on a spool of targets.
Where was I when Pauline danced
in black and white with David, or raced
through rings as bright as burning suns?
Where were you when Mick threw up his hands
like butterflies trapped in webs
of grey mendacity that tried
to guy the new years down?
Time’s portraits haunt us all:
Mandy’s smile, lit by bleaching flash-bulbs,
Christine curved and brazen as her chair;
new shapes staccato in the wilful, rushing air.
We struggle with the righting
of our own myths. Make it art.