Who is to be believed in the question of chance meaning?
Eluard claimed chance existed not, that there were only rendez-vous in life. Einstein suspected God of walking incognito.
It matters not. At the bottom of this immense trunk of forgetfulness you found and moved me to alight.
This lead toy potato peeling of my youth abandoned cyclist slips victorious
across the line once more in memory of sand pit games once heaped through simple days before the tube.
The acne cream smeared miniature mini skirted day dreams, starlet thigh mounting the podium to end this game.
Corn dolly’s evasive thread of harvest history stalks the crop to braid fragile ears and eyes.
Miraculous survivor, anonymous pop art icon, forgotten years and riches of this country’s unwashed effigy reminds
the wholesome fat of pumpkin soup be stirred by winged accordion scales and served with country wenches laugh.
This poignant trench of history now died out, dog eared and stained from the tears of fear and filled
with hopeful memory of Christmas day in no-mans-land signed feverishly from the front: Your beloved Fernand...
These fossil shards of time and rhyme,
these crumbs of destiny from hunks of debt never to be repaid unless in joint remembrances.
You lost millions mist my heart in these few remains.