Sunday, 3 April 2011

early days

Who knows how true a memory really is, or whether it is just a filament drawn from some web woven from threads of dreams?

Did my brother really nearly drown
trying to rescue his knitted teddy-bear; brown,
with anxious button eyes?

And was it in the duck pond, smeared with green weed
that he fell, face down? Did we run
for our mother, that day, or was it on another

day, that time I tried to fly, or the day we thought
the neighbours were spies
on black bicycles? Or who knows what day

out of the many days we wandered along the top
of our world, by a gully full of frogs, the blackened
craze of burnt gorse, that patch of un-melted frost?

So early and so green those early days, so wound up
with truth and dreams, so new, so old
and fixed, fastened forever to that place where time begins.

Kay McKenzie Cooke


Lydia said...

This is perfectly beautiful and so matches my mood right now! The photo is poignantly lovely too.

kj said...

kay, you are an incredible poet. it is so easy to read the wisdom in your words that the great skill of your craft settles effortlessly.


Anonymous said...

memories...childhood...imagination...looking inward to see what is there

Clare Dudman said...

Wonderful fusion of aspects of childhood and memory. Thanks Kay.

Kay Cooke said...

Lydia - Thanks for your lovely comment.

kj - Hi Karen! You're very sweet.

Theanne - That's just what I was hoping to convey - thanks.

Clare - Ah yes, the fusion - great word! Thanks.

Clocking Out

 I have been neglecting this blog for some months. I think perhaps I should face facts and accept that it is indeed time to retire this blog...