I cannot say it shines, this light,
bruised by the violet flush
of a setting sun on grey rainclouds
that forces its way through a dull pane,
while round my feet I've spread
across the floor a hundred images
or more from the past,
each framed in its square of blue plastic,
each lacking only the right light
to effect a certain kind of release,
the freedom that comes from knowing
that nothing is hidden.
Here they lie, numbered like the years,
like my confusion of the apparent and transparent.