The mural of a library wall recalled brings with it the little boy expectant that every tome held a secret. And memory’s wind dances over to the scent of my home’s hills and the reel of unfinished tales of danger and dare. A lost song sings me the name of this child and his every dream. I rewalk overgrown paths and hear the day’s echo in the night’s chill.
Love and sadness accompanies the journey. The ruptured pipes leak the hoped things upon a hungry ground. And the lost things are lost. What was not but could be is not and perished with the seasons. Each blow that struck down a light is relived leaving its specter. The unlight that remains gives a shape to the new face.
But is it less lovely for the defeat? Is it cast out, though outcast? Perhaps the expiring hope but perspiring life is the beautiful song greater than the boydream. Might we see upside down what is upright? And to tilt my neck, to revisit my eyes foci, is a matter of lifetime and not a matter of standing on my head.
Final image of The 400 Blows
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