Before the typeface
there was isolation in memories,
the stride from one day
towards a stone splashing next,
ripples spread outwards,
faded in curls.
Then, an unguided flow
and an attitude to forget,
though the stance
of a life without writing
was difficult to bear.
Events etched in conversation
let photographs coax stories,
but they related to few.
How in the summer, myself
and my cousins fought apple fights,
ready missiles fell to ground,
gilded shadows measured the sun,
the length of our aims.
There was a sense of peace
as the sky folded into evening,
when shot stars drew fine lines
with upward attention.
To recapture this is why I write;
the inspiration is now past on.
