Is there anything more long standing
than how we stood? It’s a plinth-less
monument of memory. Grey, as if cast
in lead: my father and I
sheltering. Trees above us and the narrow
road, no forks, no side-paths, endless
on either side of our wet feet. And his shoes so
much bigger. A sign of wisdom, for sure. But
our bicycles are a joke, for there is no
visible point to return to and no destination.
Memory is a twin to avarice; it doesn’t show
a signpost, only tarmac and rain and how
the tree next to us is split by lightning.
Half of it jumped across to the other side
with its bark smoking, but its core exposed:
daring me to escape. I remain frozen.
It’s still pelting down.