Past Remembrance Poem by Mark Heathcote

We looked for something past remembrance
cutting through some fields of emerald green
like a ploughed furrow waiting for a seed to grow
we looked for something past remembrance
something that's not yet solidified, like a black crow
something that's not unnoticeable and is-eerily seen
we looked for something past remembrance
vexed all things have a known resemblance.

Until we hit upon a coagulated black oak bough
that was no longer the yolk of an acorn green
no longer a sapling, oak, here only a bog oak now
the remains of which wanted-kindling in gasoline
it was something past all remembrance
it was something past all resemblance
wanting, discarded—only to be fanned into flames.