by Graham Hillard
But whether he slept or not I dare not say;
he could have remembered many things.
-Lines from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Like the smell of her, as deep and familiar
as a forgotten life taken up again,
changed while one is away, but navigable,
the streets of it paved and straight
There is always that,
isn't there? Memory culls the mainspring
of what can be kept.
Perhaps he tries to remember
the touch of her hand on his face,
storing up what he can for tomorrow,
for his leaving,
for her absence.