Memories as pebbles in our pockets ...

I'm reading Paul Auster's Winter Journal - 

There he is, on the front cover, still young, with high cheek bones, looking a bit like Kafka - 

I try to recall, as he does, my early memories - a few small islands of recollection in an otherwise endless sea of black - 

So I remember the classroom, the early darkness of winter, the scalding radiators - 

It was the last lesson of the day, towards the end of term - 

I was a pupil at Elson Junior School, wary of bigger boys - 

Our teacher, whose name I now shamefully forget, was reading to us - 

It was the first chapter of The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe - 

I wanted the listening to go on forever - 

I sensed magic stealing over the playground - 

I stood next to Lucy when she saw the faun - 

I felt the snow fall upon my face from the enchanted sky - 

Any door, I realised, might open on a different world - 

I feel even now the sense of loss, the disappointment, I felt then when miss shut the book - 

That's all she must have said, or similar words - 

Rather than islands, I'd compare memories to pebbles we might carry in our pockets - 

Some fall out, or get lost - 

Others we pick up, still smooth, or worn away - 

Ah we say now I remember - 

15.48

Thursday 6 April 2017

The Old School House

East Stoke

Dorset