The blurs

There are wounds in my memory.

He sat in stone; waiting by the rocking chair. There was sun, and heat pressed hands of sweat on the farmers. He sat, watching the horizon fade into the concrete.

There were moons and stars mourning to cricket melodies; there were crying winds and laughing whispers in the eve. He sat, a drift of smoke curling through his fingers.

There were children, somersaulting under the canopies of spring. The yelps of dogs dozing in the light of dinner candles; there were sweet scents and smiles from silent women. He sat, eyes glazed with the cloudy vaults of the sky.

There were fires. Fires tinted like the yolks of eggs; gushing out warm-hearted tales; planting fickle shadows on his back. He sat, twisting his weather-trodden hands into knots.

There are sights, there, beyond where the sun meets the concrete; where the sand meets the ocean; where bougainvillea melt in sickly reds with the roses.

There’s more than me, there’s more than you. There is more which falls just beyond the waves of the sea.

And the man stares to infinity.