someone sends a photo

of forgotten times and places
from a wheelchair the sun reaches me dappled through winter poplars
in front of the provence rehab clinic where I reside
I do not recognise the face in the photo
it is full of folly
a party in brighton, england
old friends are there
young adults
how do their spirits glow?
and now?
these journeys under the sun.
how did they go?
how will they be spoken of?
what does death think of them?
when all folly will be released

to the heat of the sun


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