Poem 237

A meditation on memory, particularly sense-memory, wondering not whether anything will be retained only what will be the last thing to go …

( I like the sea folding under itself, the lips of waves, the way bumping against me echoes jump into me … )

Mākara Beach

It fades it will fade
prickle of sun starching my skin
sea folding under itself
breaking like an egg across the shingle
these will go
and the sound of stones grinding smooth
beneath our feet
between the lips of waves

if I forget
and you forget
and it's all forgotten
still there must be something
left till last
a single sensation
that when I drive this spindly road again
into the open sea
the same concrete-block tearooms and stony park
will run up to the car door like a bored dog
sniff for a moment
for the who and when
then jump into me

the feeling of the orange
in the pocket of your coat
bumping against me
as we bump against each other
trying to walk arm in arm
along the shifting tidemark