Before him a photograph

Two genial faces

Lovers no doubt

A holiday snap?

Backdrop Rouen?

Cathedral Notre-Dame?

Has he seen it in a brochure?

Must go there one day


Pointedly she says

That that is ‘us’

‘Us’ when we had no secrets

Love-struck ‘us’

Still love-struck ‘us’

Her greatest hope

Her mantra

Her dilemma


He has no recollection

Of the event

Indeed of whom she might be


Of history, science, politics, art

He has knowledge in abundance

Yet did he exist before this day?

An irksome point to ponder

When fully formed

Without the palisade of time


She, whomsoever she is

Says he did………did exist

Says once he took her hand

Led her on the path to

Paradise found


She runs her fingers through his hair

Says when his memory returns

She will cry tears of ecstasy


He recognises the

Taste of porridge for what it is

Not though the face in the mirror

Nor the portrait of

The one she says is his father

A man he has no memory of


Desperate now

Hands upon his temples

Imperceptibly pulls him toward her

The modesty of a lingering kiss

Hopes it will do the trick

Hopes he will remember

Her taste


He pulls away

Shakes his head disturbed

She just stares

Stares and frowns

Frowns and stares


She decides to get some air

Takes her bicycle

Rides the shoreline

The bike now a folly

Within a dune

She treads the sand barefoot



He thumbs a broadsheet

Headlines just a

Maze of yarns?

Screws it up

Tosses it away

Spills his teacup



He has lost all that has gone before


This post has been inspired by the lovely Rachel Charmley’s sublime thought provoking piece;



    1. I missed this comment of yours I think – didn’t come up on my WordPress thing! Absolutely love ‘Memories turned to stone ….. the realization of human frailty’ – captures all I was trying to say. Guess I should have just written that! Cheers.

  1. truly fine, mike – the very best work of a should-be laureate – FYI, I read a fascinating novel recently relevant to the subject of lost memory: “Before I Go to Sleep” by Brit author SJ Watson

    1. I often toy with the idea of memory loss – be it dementia like my Dad had aged 88 or amnesia (which this piece was all about obviously). Fascinating to loved loved and lost not because of a falling out but simply a bang on the head. Thank you again for reading my frankly, oft times inadequate drivel.

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