How friable the years in the mill of life,

time, a lost dimension, in memories –

that we hold precious in our minds.

Thoughts and scenes that play forever

but vanish in a flash, precious snow flake

held for an instant on your hand.

Baby, child, youth or wo/man, play in an instant,

then vanish from the screen of life.

Layered, over written, covered with dust

but bright in a star burst of emotion.

Our past in the present, our present will pass.

How quietly time drifts, no scream of tires.

Just one frame replaced by another and

replaced, ever changing, but always the same.

 
 
David Garlick, Sidney, March, 2008