bric-a-brac at the end of time

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 …