Epicentre Poem by Mark Heathcote

Rose-coloured tints at sunset
above skeletal black trees
seasonally they're bloodshed
as the sky turns a red pastiche.

How shall our hearts remember
that that was once before their fall?
It's in our soul's framed epicentre.
Where we'll best, remember all?

Those rolls of film that are still not exposed
shall observe the light of some new day
when these two ends of the film enclosed
are opened up and developed, far, far away.