Of cakes & eggs, for tea.

Leaving at noon,

for a bright sunny languid

walk;

makes me hungry for the repasts

taken, and remembered as a child.

Eggs,

boiled — for trips.

And cakes,

for birthdays.

A dutiful preparation for

yet acoustic, celebration,

was mounted as a sense of un-dire occasion -

and not something that reflected our intentions,

nor aspirations of its grandeur (in our minds),

unless one day,

when we fall out of grace with our duty-bound

charges, — kids, sisters, (parents, not so much)

hopefully - later,

rather than earlier in their lives.

When we don’t collate our memories in a

less avidly pedantic way, i think we might

come across one in our

subconcsious

that occupies living thoughts,

that make us

lend us,

and soar us

to that brighter avenue

of youth,

untarnished.

— — — — -

(Written 3 years ago, for London Literary Review, & published on Sept 29.)