Only because keeping still 
as beloved photographs
wouldn't do, they laboured on.

Their desire's simulacrum moved
across gold sands ahead-
not everyone approved.

Not everyone agreed, not everyone believed,
worried over motes in the eye
while whipping up a storm.

Here we were born, as this old world
bid its interminable farewell,
a bird taking to a vast blue sky
fading like the morning star.

So, we believed we were special;
it was agreed these must be special times
we re-invented, and saw it was good.

Rust we scraped, then blasted, then zapped
primary colours screamed  
YES it was a whole new world.

Seasons of flood, seasons of drought
lead us blindfold to better understand
a view befitting a great age.

Now at last we walk through
our most valued photographs,
they break our hearts, and we labour on.