The road I have walked
seems strangely misty now,
and the fog of memory
unfolds uncertainly
as I look back.

So much has passed but
the silken layers of time
hide the fragments of
what was done and said
and felt in all the years
that created this person
creased in the mirror’s eye.

And yet memory is a trickster
who flashes close and bold
from times to time, opening
in strange moods and places,
and bringing the eye of mind back
to the vivid coloured memories
of long ago with startling clarity.

Some of these are painful, sharp.
Others are flowered with joy.

Then there are ones unexpected
and filled with surprise recollection,
spurred by the serendipity of
some words, some sounds, some places,
some smells, some images, some touches
that bring the rhapsody of return.

And here, in these odd moments,
the fog lifts its mystery layered veil
and I can see the past
as if a present urgent now.

Then I go back, back,
to a self that saw the world
though younger eyes,
in days when the world was
different and yet the same.

And I witness the shifts and turns
and the losses and gains from
what was then to what is felt now.

There is no nostalgia here,
no recolouring of treasured scenes,
though this is not unknown
to my whimsical self-recall,
only the strange evidence of
what I see and feel of then
and what know I have become
in the forming of this little life.

All too soon the cloud returns
and the living, on this road
with forks and signs, takes the
mind from the deep misty reservoir
to the presence that is the now,
lived in thought and feeling,
shifting from day to days.