The past with all its tortuous turns
lies rooted at this edge, where time
hems future’s folds
unseen beyond today’s precipice.
Her carer thinks it is just a stone
gathering dust up on the shelf
Not cherished key to moisten memories
of windswept love on Beadnell Bay.
Red rust dust clings like the Sahara in luggage;
as childhood dreams of Martian Adventures;
to the unused tools in his silent shed.
© Sheila Ash