I watch the rays of the mid-morning sun
vaporise the frozen dew on the tree
and it floats away like mist in the breeze.
Brownian motion in Kew Gardens.
I dream of my old stories floating away so effortlessly
freed by the elements to start anew.
Then, I remember the stories are already mere wraiths
their function long since forgotten,
past their sell-by-date.
All that is needed is some sun and a light breeze
and then as I let them go they will be carried away
as vapours on the wind.
