A poem on a misty morning

I guess the landscape chums are out there
shooting in their quarries
wandering like ghosts in the half morning light.
Big-game hunters of the seasons, capturing
artificial recollections
with artifice and guile, the pursuit
of a freeze frame memory.

They follow with a religious fervour
a self deception
that they believe will set them free;
a collective pursuit of trophies
to fade upon the wall.
To be replaced like old clothes,
tattered and neglected
by newer, bigger, better
more perfected pictures
to fade upon the wall.

In a world of aperture, film stock and memory cards
they neglect to open their hearts and minds.
They craft memories from what they have seen before.

And yet in their constructed worlds
they fail to see
that memories are only part of what mankind be.
Missing the complexity of who we are,
how we connect
with this world of possibility.