Sonnet about the son editing his father's 1933 journal
Lamplit I work in the shoals of the night,
collating sources with currents of facts.
Pounding at keys to make surfeits of type
in turbulent folders around me in stacks.
Luminent ghost light emerges from screen,
as digitized pixels wash out of date stains
from chemical imprints in sequence unseen;
the wreckage of memory diluted and changed.
What really happened? And who was this man?
Insights new-lived that are just out of reach.
Elusive reminders of footprints on sand,
removed by invention like wave-wipes on beach.
I pilot this story through the narrows of proof,
as the wisdom of hindsight contaminates truth.
collating sources with currents of facts.
Pounding at keys to make surfeits of type
in turbulent folders around me in stacks.
Luminent ghost light emerges from screen,
as digitized pixels wash out of date stains
from chemical imprints in sequence unseen;
the wreckage of memory diluted and changed.
What really happened? And who was this man?
Insights new-lived that are just out of reach.
Elusive reminders of footprints on sand,
removed by invention like wave-wipes on beach.
I pilot this story through the narrows of proof,
as the wisdom of hindsight contaminates truth.
[Sonnet from a collection by S.C.N. Pockley]
(CC) reserved by Simon Pockley [2] I try to respond within 24 hours
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