I imagine myself like her — back when electricity bulbs were merely future fascination; no blinks of the sun at the cheek of the ceiling. Wires were used for chicken coops and corset tails... music came tripping up the stairs by the touch of a piano [ little sister = obedient student ] who was down in the study drawing her toes on the Indian rug and making floorboards amplify melodious enchantment — that was when fresh water filled the basin; boots by the bedside; flannel unbuttoned — and the sip was cold on the tongue (drawn from the well, drawn from the creek).
Morning came peeking through the tree leaves and clipped branches post-Winter; we had the entire pivot of England all to ourselves —coffee and scones; plum marmalade; cigarettes and quills.
When the piano stopped, I’d hear crickets and rabbits. I’d pick up Pound and question criticisms (as a matter of etiquette and regard for the cultivated); gossip with Jane and laugh in private; write my own farce on the matters of literature [ how it felt so surreal in the world of object and symbol. Painting alphabets and sketching scenes before slamming them against the ground...].
That occupied all morning, all afternoon, all evening until rewardingly, a walk through the fields rescued the touch of memory again.
True. Bombs were exploding miles away and the press was printing, in BOLD, ‘The War has Begun!’
—yet so differently; less fire to the composition back then.
Days on top of days and molehills shaped like mountains, the Science that once was [always has been] is wrapping the twig I twist between my fingers, shedding skin fiercely... leaving the waves playing downstairs: earplugs full of orchestras —and the alphabet has become commercial television spewed on sitcoms flashing photographs by the zillions; and breakfast is a drive-thru.
...but I think of her on days like these. I throw away the ticking watch... journals and poetry on the table; empty ceramic cups that have faint smiles stained at the bottom.
I go back; and smell the pages like yesterday.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...