Time Sweeps on

For fifty-four years now, I’ve made fairly regular visits to Gore cemetery to pay respects to family members, but I’m pretty sure that the other day was the first time I’d ever noticed this particular statue of a sorrowful Jesus. However, the undeniable presence of moss assures me it’s no miraculous appearance.

The photos that follow were taken in Bannerman Park, Gore.

The place was fair shouting: Winter Roses are Us! Hellebores; sometimes called Christmas rose, Lenten rose, but which aren’t actually roses as such; in shades of cream, pink and purple (sometimes the purple so dark, it could well be mistaken for black).

Reluctant snowdrops, tall and shy, refuse to make eye contact. Sprinkled among the hellebores, they can easily escape notice; which I’m sure they prefer. Standing on their own ground only means being singled out, suffering under the gaze and regard of strangers.

I feel for all the bashful little snowdrops.

with surgical precision

Thoughts
I’ve already had
today have melted
into non-existence as if
they never were
or I
never was.
The brisk and precise man,
who with a steady, dapper hand
and surgical knife edge
sliced
a tiny cyst from my eyelid,
has already moved on
to his next patient.
Time sweeps all
its patients on
and on. Outside
the window the trees
sway — thin
and light
— but for different eyes.

Kay McKenzie Cooke