by Richard Vince
There are so many things we forget
Until we see them reflected
In younger people; distant aspects
Of ourselves, like the angles of
Descending feet, or the pale purple
Of pubescent hands.
Under that crystal blue sky,
It was always cold: open space between
Harsh, forbidding bricks that somehow
Gave metaphor to the day ahead.
Some of my most useless memories
Are from those days: numbers that have
Lost all significance to me, like
Bus times and room layouts;
And the names and initials of
Long gone teachers who never taught me.
Perhaps they inhabit the same part
Of my brain as all the advice
That never worked; the water I was
Given that turned out to be oil,
Feeding rather than dousing the flames.
All this was waiting for me behind
The newer layers of misery that
Papered over childhood cracks
With more of the same.
Time travel does not need
Defiance of physics:
All it takes is the shape of
Something apparently innocuous,
And a memory that is ready to talk.
Posted on 01/23/2019
Copyright © 2019 Richard Vince