—

The sun burns the shadows
as fields fall into forgetful,
speed is not my subject
nor a confusion I can peacefully pedal.

We are tethered to tracks;
all these pick ups and their set downs
that perish after purpose while we rattle
toward the repercussions and rebounds.

The sun burns the shadows,
I am senseless to why I strayed,
distance no more distinct like those faces
that had the fortune to fade,

baggage is back breaking,
space not as infinite as vowed,
I cluttered conscience in cupboards
but now cast countless confusions onto a cloud.

The sun burns the shadows
in fields of former exertion
now sullen at the sight of its descendants
and their detached desertion,

Tattered ties sag on trees,
forefathers flounder in a darkness
no longer indulgent to either
a hopeful herd or healthy harvest

(I have clippings of ribbons in boxes
but no recollection of what I tied them to).

The sun burns the shadows,
I watch from crowded compartments
all crammed with connections that deceives
with its distractions and derailments,

I am no more surprised
to set down on the wrong platform
than to drive in the right lane, so long
have I turned from the left of this sojourn,

remembering is rough,
memory meanders like tracks
that turn twists into truths, that take
their tales far from the foundation of facts,

(creativity is carte blanche to recreate,
the truth was too dull to disclose
and so it burns in the shadows
of these fields I am flying past)

The sun burns the shadows,
sets by a sea I’ve never seen,
where breakers are beached as if tired trunks
might tempt time to sweep more serene.

The morning sun is slow
as my feet sweep across salt sands,
I reach towards the crisp air that has crept
to a calmness to caress my hands

but in all this stillness,
before the day yet yawns awake,
its still as elusive as time itself
that never stops for you to catch a break;

We are not the fishermen,
but the fish viewing the hook
as something to hang onto.
We are not the sea
but the sand being swept into shapes
we cannot always smooth out.
We are not the tracks
but the train being taken
to places we never thought to touch.

The sun burns the shadows
and I watch from behind the glass,
my reflection cast upon
things I will never touch
while, in my eyes, I still see
the things that time has still to take.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly