someone sends a photo

of forgotten times and places

from a wheelchair the sun reaches me dappled through winter poplars

in front of the provence rehab clinic where I reside

I do not recognise the face in the photo

it is full of folly

a party in brighton, england

old friends are there

young adults

how do their spirits glow?

and now?

these journeys under the sun.

how did they go?

how will they be spoken of?

what does death think of them?

when all folly will be released

to the heat of the sun