The light changes. It
flashes the road to sepia
in the mirror. A backward glance
at the kids shows they’re sleeping
and an old man pushes a bike.
The light changes it
to a skeleton of black lines,
changes him to a black line
in the mirror. The backward glance
of sunlight off the road glares
the whole picture into a monochrome
the light changes. It
changes the old man, bends him
into his grandfather, a picture-postcard
in the mirror; a backward glance
a hundred years ago. Nothing changes.
Time fragments like a flash and gleam
in the mirror. A backward glance.
The light changes it.
by Nigel McLoughlin