Scintillant stars, they leave a sign,

Devoid of all expression.

To fill a hole in space and time,

Existence, is their impression.

Footprints on a sandy beach,

Tides wash away the soft depressions.

A layered past, replaced, repeats,

With life's varied impressions.

Every essence, in this world of mist,

Says, here is our confession.

That nothing can indeed exist,

Without once leaving an impression.

Memories, imprinted in my core,

Indelible marks, formed in succession.

But when reality is no more,

With words, I'll leave my own impression. By Robert Watson

Partington Street, Bolton

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.