Memory

I’m never really certain if
the eye or the camera
imagines —  flickers of
a second, or the languid
role time sometimes
assumes — voyeur of
the day, sunlight, roads
imploding into a solitary
stop sign, person waiting
on the corner for the light
to change.  And change —
what of that beast, that
roams each action, colouring
events with monotheistic
paint?  It’s too much, this
supposition that only one
view is the view.  I remember
the Bruce Trail, near Tobermory,
the rocks, white flashes
painted in a sporadic manner —
a guide between lost and found —
struggling to discern the path.
Yet, with Georgian Bay to the right,
trees to the left, how could one
ever be lost?  It’s not that easy
with statements I hear every
day, with rational thought
flowing across the world,
like water over Niagara Falls.
Beginning and end are set
pieces, though the journey
between, the changes in
being — this is where the
photo is static, a second
removed from time, bronzed
and used as a useless shield.