Where were the other children?
Way down the garden, or clambering
over the leopard-print seats
in the Morris Minor?
You were in the front room,
the parlour, the sitting room,
the good room.
His waistcoat facing you.
There must have been mention
of a penny bar over on
the mantelpiece, because you
swung your head back
when you heard her at the door.
Perhaps it was her tone,
like the ice cubes she put in
the Saturday glass of Pak orange,
or was it the way she spoke
about you in the third person
when she said it was time
you went home?
You felt that, somehow,
you had done something wrong.
No memory of coming or going.
Tell me, child, why
do you still grasp this time-shard
when memories are lost
as easily as a daisy hair clip
in a day’s rough and tumble?