by Angela Prew

Cyclamen and anemones glow
in the dark woods;
I can see them still.
That pink house
this little girl knew was beautiful
with its blue windows
How often did you surrender
a Sunday aftrnoon
to drive me there?
I wish i could remember you clearly
in boots and old trousers,
smelling of chicken feed,
laughing with Grandpa on the farm.
These memories are rubies
shining in the gloom of later years.
I gather them,
sometimes I wear them.
A necklace to remind me.

You had been here six months
before you came to my school,
sweet-talked the Head,
took me to lunch.
But my cousin came too.
My nineteenth birthday
brought flowers.
“Come and stay,”
said the card, “Now
that you are human.”
And I did.
Frozen, at the airport,
by those ice ble eyes,
I longed to fly home.
These are memories to be
forgotten. Wiped
from the board. Cast
into the sea.

Sitting in the chimney corner
of old age
is a time to remember
but I must also learn
to forget.


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