Funny, what we do with memories,
most stored in the mind’s untidy loft –
blurred beneath a dusty shroud,
which does not come like house-dust –
pale, from the light and motion of living,
but in a still, dark filtered, quiet decay.
In more frequented rooms, auto-biographies
cherished in thick, padded albums,
an inheritance for future generations –
selectively framed, recorded and played
are ever embellished or sanitised
by a tongue’s fond fireside polishing.
Yet there appear gaps – from an impatient vehicle –
youth’s reckless open windows – accidental losses,
like a plastic bag fluttering in a winter tree.
Other voids resemble snipped-out silhouettes –
scratched erasures – removals buried under patio slabs.
So creeps a late wandering – haunted, vacant.
But ah! Those vain life-long attempts at the indelible –
the spoiled rug rolled coldly around weeping wounds –
that messy history, bundled into a car-boot one dead night,
fly-tipped and exposed, to ruin someone’s
favourite beauty-spot – or opinion of you.
© Caroline Fox Betts 2010