the tin that used to display milk chocolate sardines
now holds a hodge-podge of lavender buds
beach pebbles and white chalk from the dover cliffs
the champagne-coloured marble from my pocket
lies there in state, dusty and southeast of center
will these mementos one day explain who i am?
she liked chocolate, watson, for the fishes are gone
visited whitstable beach at midday, braved the cliffs
yet bought the lavender three miles from home
she had an unconventional sense of symmetry
her solitude was explosive with sound, her company
kept in quiet and laughter and illustrated memories
she felt no need to explain herself because her
self-expression showed in every facet of her life
is that what they will say about me one day
when the remnants of my life are waded through
like the ash-covered ruins of pompeii? do the
everyday details of my existence matter if the
over-arching moments counted intensely, extravagantly?
or will i only be remembered here as so much stuff and nonsense …
