See those old blue boards.
Every one of them.
Warped and cracked and a bit twisted,
By time and weather.
Held fast together by old nails.
A brotherhood of memories
(Nothing holds stronger than memories).
The old paint is cracked and peeling
And underneath is more paint,
Down to the root of the wood.
A deep, rich blue.
Bluer than blue.
It’s the memory of blue.
The old gate swings wide,
Open to a path of cut stones and dark gravel.
How many feet have passed here?
There seems to be a garden beyond.
Dark broad leaves speak of a seaside town to me.
I imagine a narrow street in front,
Once for carriages,
Now maybe for cars,
But for passing people either way.
A gate is a border,
A mark of separation,
Discreet to discreet,
One to the other.
How many crossings marked by that gate?
I think, sometimes, that the whole weight of a life
May be left in a footstep
Each step carries the permanent ghost of a life.
I think, sometimes, that if I just knew how to squint my eyes,
Or cock my head
In just the right way,
I might see and hear the lifetime of memories
Pressed into each footprint.
How many stories carried through that gate?
That old gate stands,
With its curved top,
As it has always stood,
Against the weather
And against time.
Truthfully, for all I know it may be less than a year old.
That’s not true.
The truth is, that old gate has been there forever,
Carrying and holding and bound together
A brotherhood of memories.
Nothing holds stronger than memories.