Driftwood

They float on by, memories of yesterday, Moving like driftwood caught in the steady flow of the stream called life.

Some get caught, tangled in the mess of regrets, others move on; lesson learnt, but no place for them in the present.

Like the tail on a kite flying high in the noon day sky, some parts still visible no matter how far they go, yet others but a blur to the eye, even when close they appear to be.

Their colours dancing like little waifs, adrift, waiting to be gathered, lost souls needing a steady hand to guide, so they can once more reach up and touch the sky.