Stories repeated through generations,
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.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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