Copyright Petru J Viljoen

there’s no-one left to remember. it’s on
to seventy-five years since the Chev rolled down
the mountain. The chrome on the bumper shone
in the midday sun, enough to distort the frown

of the one who bent closer, who looked in-
to the fog of time, morphing the present;
the past a hologram; souls who have seen
who have borne witness of a quest fervent

seeking peace, forgiveness, deliverance
from a hell-fire brewed – a moonshine potent
enough to raze the years of innocence;
all memory brought to the moment.

the present a contract compact, a fevered brow
cooled – a whoosh of wind, a mercy bestowed

….

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