each handing on to the next, some truth,
all gathered in memory of mind and cell;
bequeathing the old to new youth.
Time sifted through those many tales,
tinkering with plot and characters,
reworking ancient facts as mythology;
released in each birth as factors.
And now, repeating, as I do such accounts,
there is a sense of entering into that past,
embarking on a journey of remembering;
handing on each story as they have asked.
NB: not sure I have this right but tried all the same.
In that instant of a drowning madeleine,
transported through the seas of memory
and feeling, he was adrift on oceans of
smell and taste, sweet, aromatic, sensory –
I looked up from the book, it was time
for coffee and a madeleine from the freezer.