Are the scars of memory a souvenir or something like?
With shadows I sit eating here and listening back
As the soundscapes shift their keynotes slowly over time
From rattles and rings to the hushing of the night.
Start coincidental histories of surprise:
Small world, a shared dream, ‘Yeah I knew him as a child’.
And the soundscapes shift their keynotes slowly over time
From gull cries and horns to the heaving of the tide.
If when I’m on my own
Peter comes to take me home
We’ll see the scallop shell
And I know he’ll treat me well.
I still have this photograph,
souvenir, or fading scar:
How the stones shift underfoot. Your pace towards the lines,
Dug into the shore, disappears in the light.
As we drift with the suck of the tides.
Remembering a trip to Aldeburgh with my dad. He’s a big fan of Benjamin Britten and Peter Pears.