Sunday, 3 April 2011
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
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