Begin with a dozen items, their order determined
only by pulse and music. The sound of night-rain,
very softly falling. The smell of chloroform,
and a chess-set fashioned from ivory and light.
That secret I can never share, and the stench
of my own fear. The high jinks of the first swallow.
A Liberty handkerchief (circa 1976),
and the aroma of wild strawberries. The scent
of a baby. Crunch-crunch of snow underfoot.
That fatal first kiss … Well, I’m keeping one
to myself for the moment. This is my game now.
I knew what was to come after the cake
and candles and the snaps with the Brownie:
that dreadful covered tray … My throat grew dry.
So why am I still competing, and with whom
(e.g. the Grim Reaper, Dr Alzheimer, no-one)?
Gut has guided me, and I see all five senses
are represented, though I’ve this sense sometimes
of something beyond sense. No ideas but
in things, true, but in things not only presences,
absences too. Please go back to the beginning.
Would you care to adopt any of my items?