Burning the Journals by Robyn Sarah

The past is useless 
to me now: 
an old suitcase
with mould in the lining,
heavy even when empty—  

heavy empty, 
like the bronze bell
of the Russian church,
clapperless
in the grass;

so I shall have to go
on from here with less
to bank on.  My peeled eye.
The way things
sing in the sun

~ from The Touchstone, Poems New & Selected (Anansi, 1992)