memory of memory

Green tin shed house in a valley

The smoke curls
from the red chimney pot
into the heavy mist.
Rose petals lie fragrant
on the damp dark soil,
trampled by thrushes
picking for snails.
Sweet peas
are full of the shower
that fell half an hour ago.
Patiently dripping,
the apple tree shelters
sweet scented stock and marigolds.
Soon she will come
and pick my favourites
to place by my bed.

I arrive late;
and awake to the fresh smell
of sweet peas and roses
mingled
with the familiar
aroma of paraffin.


I wrote this when I was perhaps 19 - it could have been just before or just after. I find it interesting that I chose to write about the place in misty damp weather, muted colours; not the sunny times that I have spent there, the glorous blue skied orange poppied spring days, or sharp frosty days....