Poetry

Shards

It’s all up in the air,

setting the places on an already cluttered chess board

and there’s no time to

 

let’s try it again,

how many times can a game

be taken back to the last save

before it

 

the mirror was kept so highly polished

no-one noticed

the hairline cracks until

 

a bright tartan dustpan collects it

and glues it back together.

Not seamlessly: the past happened,

it wasn’t reversed.

But now the mirror reflects exactly,

as it always yearned to.