A froggy vision

It’s 1920. Grandpa Philip is only a wee lad. The full head of hair

I never got the chance to see and touch is floating

in the wind.

Caught in the gust.

The war ended recently. History is propelling onwards

at an alarming rate. But here time stood still.

Do wind and time hurtle on in an inverse relation?

Is it still in Moscow? Wind free in Berlin? Calm in Koln?

Sun sets. Frog appears. Ribbet ribbet.

Frog seems out of place. Black and grey and silver and gold

are striking in this wash of blue and green.

Frog takes out his camera and walks towards Grandpa Philip,

Framing his face and billowing hair in the sightfinder.

Keeping Philip in the centre of his vision, Frog continues, face still.

Why is Frog holding the camera?

Is the camera from Hong Kong?

What would my grandfather say if he saw Frog from Hong Kong holding a camera

to fend off the wind that blows out our fire?

Would he see a vision of the future not yet come or a past still oncoming?