She pulls impressions from memory files,
Stacking them between the hearth
And a pitcher of iced water.
Through a process of elimination,
With the aid of imaginative convenience
She decides which should burn
And which should freeze.

The ones that still hold heat in her heart
Shall reignite in bright flame,
And she will draw oxygen through cinders
And the coals shall burn again.

Memories that descend like a hailstorm
Are fated to the shuddering chill,
To the depths of a symbolic disused quarry
And its waters deathly dark and still.

She sees a handsome man from the past,
Full of life love and promises
And compares him to
The sleeping snoring mass
Bent and slumped on the armchair,
His hand inches away
From an empty wine glass.

She recalls rainy summers spent under canvas,
Then rendered to canvas, preserved in frame
Now stacked in the cobwebbed dark of the attic,
Nostalgia no longer viewed…
The laughter induced by sodden clothes
And the smudging of mud,
Passions for far too long subdued

Somewhere central to the pros and cons
Memories remain resolutely etched,
Flameproof and fearless of the cold,
A good meeting point for the swing and sway
Of the positives and the despondencies,
A safe haven relied upon
When tomorrow steals today.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017