nostalgia

In search of lost time

I’m sitting on Bute street
In my head the French bookshop
And French bakery Bonne Bouche
Are still here, smelling of books and
Bread, livres et pain

I’m still sitting on Bute street
I open my eyes, I can smell Mama
Pho and it doesn’t go with my
£pp3.50 flat white

I’m looking at a shop called Blanc
With towels and a sign ‘Fashion doesnt
Have to Cost the Earth’ instead of
Books in French

Now I know how old women feel
The ones who talked about the
Old days as if they were better
Now they’re gone

I will not come here again to
Look for the past, I will not
Find it, I will go somewhere
Else to remember.

Father P.C.M. (Precious Childhood Memories)

So many, I should be able to shuffle
Them like cards and arrange them
Into different hands, full house, two pair
Et cetera Et cetera. So many hands, so

Alive the days, the hours growing under
Your gaze, facts great and small tumbling
Out of your hard working teeth, so much
Enjoyed the taste of living, the joys great

And small, coursing along the network
Through the high voltage bangs “Christ”
“******” And back again, looking for the next
Buzz, lighting the way, the room, the earth.

On Holiday

The runway brings wonder,
Breathing its strange breath,
Promising nourishment like
The heave of swollen teats.  

In the the car on the wrong
Side, we can’t read the signs, passing fast
The radio means nothing, gushing
Loud then soft, like the sea.  

In the old town, new to us, the shops
Feature treats. We eat as much as we can,
Looked on by History, never stopping to
Look up at her stories,  

Soon we will be going back, 4
More days of unforecast choices before
We lift off and die and memories cake us in
Nostalgia until we are born again.