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A few years ago my dad and I were out on one of our many walks through the Welsh hills. Being interested in different styles of photography, I asked him to walk away from me so that I could take a picture. He obliged, probably because for once he didn't have to look at the camera. This is a negative version of the photograph.
He is walking away down an ancient, long since disused, drover's road, now little more than a grass track over farmland. There are many such roads in Wales. Walk along these and one walks with ghosts, both of the dead and the living. Who is to say which is which? |
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Reconciliation
Do I have time for dreams,
for might have beens?
Can I make time to think,
to breathe?
If I did, this is it.
Shattered afternoon.
Homecoming in despair.
Summer day of green and grey.
The man we know has gone away,
picked up his load
and sauntered by.
No.
It was not like that at all.
If I could scrape ice from this glass,
breathe a hole upon this frost,
I would show you everything.
Give me the power of knowledge.
Arm me with truth. Take me
back to his last breath,
the rise and fall.
Show me that great and humble man.
He pauses in the doorway,
catches sight of my face,
holds out his hand,
touches mine and says,
No my dear,
you cannot go here.
You cannot change the past.
The past is.
He has rainbows in his eyes, one
for every ten thousand years of life.
Every soul that he was,
every day that he breathed,
is held within him now.
I have no need to cry,
for I can see him in my dreams,
ten thousand spirits in the night
calling out to me,
I am who I am,
who I was and will be.
I've been around from the start.
I am eternity.
© Berenice Dunford 2003 |
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