I met a memory at noon, on the corner
Of Shakespeare Street, near Dean Road
Where my grandfather had walked
Home from school. I recalled him
Telling me the tale of his youth.
I remembered his remembrance
And walked, imposter-like, down
The lanes of his memory,
Encountering a second-hand story
Of red-brick walls and painted clay
And horses and carts and kids at play
With unwashed hands.
He’d sketch on the backs of cereal
Boxes, drawing a life without plans
Or horizons. Simply creating. And
then I met myself at five past noon,
Walking out of someone else’s day.