DUST

Master of contrast,

a hazy, drowsy shine,

light-grey, almost white

on mahogany wood,

but once wiped away with

an ochre cloth from the screen,

it turns into black dirt,

time’s perpetual birth.

Master of stillness,

accumulating as pupils

of the passing days.

They told us,

and it’s ever so clear,

it’s what we will all turn into,

re-turning I think

to the time when we flew,

before coagulating

into this momentary

substantial mess

in which sometimes

we manage to keep flying,

nonetheless.