Memory dredges its finds day by day. Seemingly a random bob to the surface of rumination, or chosen by association, Some I keep close by, polished and treasured, almost as whole as my Victorian clay pipe from a mudlarking moment. Other finds are pulled like teeth, in pauses between thought, prayerful silences, and as with dream sequences, glued into some faint form until daylight seeps the colours back. Is this what a life story is -just a collection of pottery fragments, fossils from a broken dynasty as proof of what was and what will never be again. I had visualized gossamer threads, a fingered web on the pulse of the past. I had feared losing that grip. Now I must treasure each and every piece until there is nothing more to hold. Now I go ahead with a pocketful of shards.
Tangential Tellings on Thursday- the opposite of ekphrastic à la Teju Cole.
PoetryPix 