Not Screeds

Memories are not screeds

Texts and starry photographs

Blurred and subject to change

But more

As one seeing horizons fast

Knows the eye holds more than

Still machine-images

An ever flowing current

Like warm blood, tears of rain

Can be born from water

One is running back and forth

In place and time within one beholder

As what we see

And what we recalled perceiving

Is done through deep reflective reason

Sparks of subconscious startled

Bearing relevance

By dint of recall, significance

How often does still image alone

Has been, be reached into the pocket with

Present distraction and come-to-be?

By J.W.H. Hobbs.