Turn back and regard, that which has passed.
A time when the mind could be with the future yet, indignant,
it stays reliving a life apart.
The muslin‑haze of a doubt redundant is swept aside
to draw a sight unwavered,
and the heart unfurls with the rising sun
of Great Summer past, present, and still to come.
The evening beams as a journey continues;
the blue sky’d hope a foil to the decay that is the bequest of profit.
The sight of the graves beckons hope rather than grief,
chill stones as testament to the pilgrim’s faith,
rites on a journey never‑ending.
The cleansing of rainsting, a purge to shackled remembrance,
the lacklustre postures of a character too tempered.
The chapel light, a beacon in the New Town numbness
a single‑cell legacy of a, once encompassing, certainty.