Remembering

seasgull prompt
Image source, for The Sunday Muse prompt #74

***
Like the slowly louder clunks
a train’s wheels send ahead,
as it wends its way along ancient tracks,
the old man’s memories float
slowly to the fore, the streaks
of dappled light dancing
on the walls behind his face
a spotlight, falling on him
the same way it falls on
a minstrel at a cabaret, drawing a hush
out of the muted mumblings of the gathered.
Though his wrinkled skin, once soft
now lies wrinkled, warped and folded
and his fingers once supple now lack dexterity,
like a seagull resplendent in its freedom
the memories of past songs return,
the track and the piano fusing in
a crescendo refusing to be silenced.

13. Caught Up


A pop up on LinkedIn is how my memory of him gets reawakened. He, O, is an old friend whom I haven’t spoken to in a very long time, far longer than I care to admit.

It is with some trepidation I send a request to connect and a message. That gets accepted, following which we exchange a few messages, ending with obtaining his phone number.

A forty five minute conversation on the phone today reminds me of all what I have missed from that friendship. All things being equal we plan to catch up properly when next I am in London, wives, kids and all…

Season of re-memory

‘Inspired’ by an old man I spotted sitting on a bench at the corner of George and St John’s Street, soaking up an unexpected blast of sunshine whilst muttering to himself. 

Image (c) TrekEarth.com; Source:  www.trekearth.com

old_man_crying

 

 

The old man sits
cross legged
in the rain.
He bows his head,
and wraps his hands
around himself
and begins to sway.
He sings a song
and mouths the words
from a sombre lyric
that only he
still remembers.
The tears – tiny rivulets
of liquid; crystal clear
flow down his face,
and down his beard
as he rocks
to the rhythm
of his sombre song.
I imagine
that he remembers
and that the tears
are tears of memory,
of many yesterdays,
of loss, of pain,
and of nostalgia.
I imagine
that when his tears
cease to fall,
and the rivers on his face
dry out
he will arise in peace
until the season
of re-memory