Who can imagine the stars in Daylight? Only the blind I suppose. My eyes have adjusted as far as they. I strain to count the stars in one small patch of canvas. The fainter ones play tricks. I give up, photograph Orion and try to recall the last time I saw Moonlight playing on the teeth of a churchyard.
Who should I remember after my mother, father, lovers. Should I anticipate Remembrance Day just over week away? Or the children of Gaza, Sudan, Ukraine? Or the death of biodiversity by a 1,000 cuts? Or try for a blank slate. Forget the past, look ahead to the next poem, the next village meeting, the next full moon.
Death is ruthless whatever the circumstances, even a drifting to the end. Death each line finished with a dagger [obelisk] indicating a person is dead, a word is obsolete, or a species has become extinct.
In the distance a chainsaw is doing its dirty work.
The poem com as always, misses in conclusion.
