Wednesday, June 20, 2018


Memory isn’t a lane
Bordered by houses once remembered
And a lilac bush that leans at an odd angle

Memory is a smell
A cinnamon finger biscuit
Cellophane peeled away
I see us then crouched over
A reel to reel tape recorder.
Granny sulks in Holland
Thunder brows lowered at
A son’s choice of wife
We record messages
Lines learned by heart
To say we love her
Dutch Speculaas on a plate beside us

Memory isn’t a lane
With dirty brown puddles and
A noisy bridge where the motorway passes over

Memory is a taste
Of porridge
It’s my turn for the top of the milk
The moat around my porridge is
Filled thick and white
A dusting of brown sugar
My sister sits opposite me
Her spoon diving down
Stealing my cream

Memory isn’t a lane with
Trees hugging close and
Staircase branches inviting me to climb

Memory is the touch
Of a rusty nail that pierces my foot
Cobwebs stretch over doorways
Of scrapped cars
Spiders swing and bounce with
Long legs and round button bodies
A forbidden playground
My father’s slap hurts more than the nail

Memory isn’t a lane
Hot and sweet with fat blackberries
And the hum of an electric cable overhead

 Memory is a sound
A wild whipped wind
Slapping rain against the window
Rhythm and blues
On a Saturday afternoon
And oiled and glistening wrestlers
Slammed against ropes with
Grunts and snarls and
A baying crowd
On a black and white TV set

Memory isn’t a lane
Between ordered gravestones and
Old flowers crisp and faded

Memory is what you see
A photo of my father
And the wish he wasn’t gone
Nothing more than
Ashes and an urn

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