Before the now,
with scissors held recklessly high,
I ran to your heart to be me;
where, on the edge of the forgotten,
safe and sharp memories collided,
random in the colours,
sweet, bitter, all came,
to be picked
and to bleed.
Now, the car, the only object moving,
blurs landscapes quicker than thoughts,
its noise spits sparrows from the hedgerows
as I add more things
to my contracting life’s list.
© D Archer July 2014