Not long ago I found a roll of film hidden in the bottom of a backpack.
I developed it, rinsed in nostalgia and curiosity.
What I have discovered is that we have small and fleeting moments,
glimmers of light,
shadows and suns,
lithe and airy souls.
They fade quietly,
lingering in the bottom of backpacks,
adrift in memory.
My sister owns a farm in the far north east
which I visited most recently,
oddly it was warm and misty despite being the middle of winter.
I read omens that this season would be mild and hushed,
but few have believed it beside myself.
That place was full of light, but it was hidden like pearls,
eclipsed in short days and oncoming nights.