My nephews came to visit Sunday and is often the case they decided to turn the garden into their very own playground. I took the opportunity of getting some practice with my Nikon D3000 by taking a few photos and playing with settings along the way.

The following is inspired by the immortality photos give but also the mortality as well. Our images remain but often our names fade given time and the failure to record them.

Historian

A postage stamp collection
frozen like microscopic slides
they stretch decades
like stepping stones
each number,
a fragment of a second
labelled neatly as dead butterflies
immortality is given
but their names forgotten
in the failed electrics of memories.

This is a revisit of a vivid dream (not a nightmare) I had as a child a long time ago, a dream which perhaps was just a dream or a perhaps a portent although time will prove the latter or not.

It is an interesting concept that we can know the nature of our demise, more so if the brain knows and decides to enlighten our consciousness through our subconscious and dreams.

Portent

A repeated wrong note in an orchestra
The knife sits in a drum skin with an unfurling edge.

Grain falls between the lady’s hips
Rotates sun and moon on the washing line.

Death, the old master no longer rests his bones
A portent sent in the post of childhood dreams

The lady is loosing weight and the
knife is slipping.