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Memory
Memories play games
depending on ghosts
hanging from shadows
in a cracked cup.
Frames from the cutting room floor
spring into an order
no-one can confirm;
bobbins bounce across the cushiony
brain of time flicked by swift hands
in an indeterminate dance
make a lace no-one can predict,
binding threads between
intricate places: a pattern
neither of presence nor absence;
the bobbin in hands you no longer own.
Needlepoint and cut work slide past,
hands raised, Don’t forget,
—even though you would—
missing days, hours, minutes
moments that make pain.
You cannot engross
days of late summer after the equinox
the sea low in the afternoon
in the way of water
holding quiet pools of emerald and sand,
shoals of sea grass leaf
shed from nursery beds,
where lamp shells from beyond memory
breed unseen in its cover,
or possess the fabric of threads
that root in soil, sand, rock,
establishing a temporary home
a place beyond time.
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