Sometimes
when mist settles on the Mountains
the cliffs appear suspended
and we, too, seem to float
above everything.
Birds drift across the sky,
a silent melody of black notes
until that taut skin of light vibrates
in a beat of white noise
and we’re sliding into the void
with the cockatoos
and it could be 1908, or maybe 1920,
just another present
caught in a camera’s lens,
a blue negative
discarded in the mist.

© John Low