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Mar 2016
The wind whispers its secrets to the trees
while we are still. Still, on the hill,
resting on the blanket while our toes feel the grass,
just a dot on a map. A pinprick,
not enough to unsettle the water.
See that man in the red shirt with the blurred face
surrounded by green in the heat of the day?
It takes a while to find him, after you’ve traced my finger.
There’s no camera and no visions
no landmark over there, you say.
My eyes follow the blue in the sky over to the green
and that red. Where no one will see
what doesn’t matter;
that red dot that climbs is too small for memory
and he’s fading around a corner.
Quietly, I wonder
if the eyes in my head are enough proof.
And what mountain holds medals
for people who have no care for them.
Martha O'Brien
Written by
Martha O'Brien  UK
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