Footprints in snow

Speeding backwards.
Black lines in the white.
Snowlight, so very bright –
like the future they say –
Should I be wearing shades?

Travelling in the other direction,
their distant faces flash by,
bewildering, shocking
blurring your world a few moments
before the blank page returns,
all jagged edges smoothed,
all contours standardised
details wiped out in the white out.

A painting, re-started
a life, re-booted.
Poor old Michael Finnegan
Begin again.

Speeding backwards
through the ice.
Birds black against the crystal carpet,
fight in the azure sky.
The trees would shatter,
if I touched them.
Memories, captured
in their twigs and branches,
running down in to my very roots –
Warmer beneath the earth.

But the snow will melt,
and the spring will come,
and new shoots will grow,
and the branches will be hidden
in their summer costume.
Or else they will die, and dry
and snap, and fall. Become the mulch
that feeds us all.

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