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.)