Memory

The afternoon belongs to my grandfather.

You cannot take it away though the mind darkens and the children’s laughter has strayed like messages.

I am near the verandah, lost in my nets of thought which I brought from age six, a very long way.

You cannot sentence memory to death, it returns through the years lulled into hymns.

If I close my eyes

Time will forget me;

I hear an old lady reading from Rilke, she finds the best line and explains that poets don’t have to rhyme anymore.

If I close my eyes my hands will forget me,

I’m up in the plum tree near to the sky; if I leave, I’ll never come back. Here in this distance, birds fly, they fly, but they do not sing. The night waits in the house safe and peaceful as candles or carts pulled by trusty mules; My grandfather waits in the house.

You know, the moon is just a violin that longs to be repaired.

Rachel Manley (Jamaican in Canada) A Light Left On: Peepal Tree Press: 1992