When we will have been remembered

I wake into resistance, a flare of blood in my eye. Another day disappears down the drain of small tasks convoked when I open the computer.

Such a pour. What I drop does not fall.

Unsurprisingly, a headache clenches the backs of my eyeballs, natters at the contours of my scalp, presses an angle into my ear.

Only the yellow leaves of wild roses can release me. Together we stagger the ditches.

Fog straddles the islands and dampens the view: every large stone submerged. Stumps gather the perimeter of the bay, rough grey forms rounding into dusk.

Most days, water holds the light. Why then have even the puddles turned bleak?

How the rushing darkness steals every reflection.

Already, when we arrive, too late.