Like the paint
of wooden hull groaning under the strain of oars,
pitted by the sting of salt spray,
peeled back under countless waves.
So too, like a tombstone,
hard-etched by the sun’s bitterness,
and those times.

Not by Time itself,
for Time itself is but the vehicle,
but those times.
Like images on snippets of film frame,
flipping and curling round the feet of stools
on the editing room floor.

And those times they are the artist,
thoughts and memories their tools.
The gray, the cracks, the shadows
brushed and chiselled ever clearer
shape the face,
the testimony of life’s panorama.

About the author: Conrad

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