
Memory Store.
A staccato flash of white scurries across
the top of my fence. The albino squirrel
come to bury his autumn hoard.
Where does he keep his memory store –
his secret recollections?
I imagine mine to be in a biscuit tin.
A large one – gold rimmed,
with a Victorian Christmas scene of
two well-wrapped children peering into
a bowed, glass-paned shop window.
My biscuit tin no longer smells
of cinnamon and ginger.
When I opened it today it smelt of
rose petals – soft as cream,
in summer colours of yellow and pink.
With a twist of my stick
the petals swirl in a pan,
cold water flushes over their bruises,
but does not absorb them, or meld them.
The water carries them.
I stir vigorously,
splashing drops onto my gypsy shawl,
but the petals float stubbornly.
I imagined a magical potion,
A rose-infused brew.
I dip my finger and taste the wet pad.
A hint of muddy grains and something musty
meets my tongue,
and I pretend it is no longer just a rusty pan
of tap water and stolen blooms.