every time I count the faces in the family portrait
someone has moved
I almost remember who is dead and who’s there
the quick and the good
the background is foggy
a lake and some trees
a cousin near the centre
on his or my knees
I almost remember who is dead and who’s there
I almost remember I’m dead
when we are gone there will still be rainbows
light fractured through our loved ones’ tears
you look forward
I search back
brothers centuries apart
inspired by Dominic
We paint over the faces of our forebears
when their time has been.
Blank wall canvases in the church or beyond the industrial walls
tempt further figures from minds to fingers to eyes.
Do we need to remember so as not to repeat?
I paint to forget.
Inspired by John
Rain ran down the statue’s face
as it had since the casting, the carving,
the muddled unveiling,
the cheering and booing,
the eventual forgetting.
Rain ran down, uncaring.
Many years ago
today
she arrived crying in the world.
Later I remember she would smile.
Some years more
but still today
and many miles away from her
his parents felt their world complete.
They smiled.
Never knowing
but through the years
they lit the candles together
laughing in a distant unison.
He did not know
and nor did she
and now she is not here
and he does not remember.
For years now
since she left
the celebrations have been singular
but heartfelt
by all.
It would be inaccurate to say
I remember chalk springs
and water meadows.
Memory implies they no longer live inside me,
shaping my future,
the clarity of the water chilling my bones.
I can never forget them
or the colour of the foliage
or the too-soon long walk home.
in response to a tweet from @londonlitlab 15/07/21
beyond the hedge the sound
of children laughing
beyond the bridge the sight
of feathers falling
beyond the sea the sense
of two hearts beating
beyond all time the memory
of your hand in mine
memories burning fiercely
undimmed by ceaseless downpour
always summer in my heart
He sat in the sun on a bench in the park, his jacket too heavy. ‘May I?’ said the woman who appeared out of nowhere, pointing at the other end of the bench. ‘Aye, of course,’ he almost said but instead grunted and nodded and looked away. It’s not much of a story to tell, the woman may have thought, unless I invent that he is famous or an actor or identical to that man who had done that terrible thing when she was only a child. Her parents had turned the newspaper over but she had found and read the article, following the words with her finger. The memory had stayed with her like a fishhook through the lip. She sat and did not look at the man, who did not look at her.
He did not answer when she first spoke to him, nor later when she stood up and left. All he could think of was his daughter.
simonsalento 