Memory

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

Yes,

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

So

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