My memory is not of a place
But of a photograph;
Of coal, steel, and smoke that
Departed before I arrived.

As with people, scars cannot
Hide the beauty of a landscape:
They and their healing
Tell a story that gives depth
To the superficial surface.

Grass grows greener,
Rivers run clearer as they
Emerge from all we made
To hide them. But now
They hide in plain sight as
Our eyes look determinedly
Elsewhere.

It is a gift to live in
A country of so many secrets:
As long as I live I will
Never want for adventures.

01/21/2021

Posted on 01/24/2021
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince