What is a memory
But the imagination
Of how it felt: Sunny,
When she walked in
To a cold dark room.
God-like,
When you looked up.
Still & serene,
In a sleepless city aflutter. It is not true, not necessarily,
But it is to be remembered
Just as you felt,
Not with your eyes
But under your skin. These photographs
Shall not be entered into evidence
For they are coloured
By wilful memory’s eloquence.
