That part of the brain controlling storage of, and access to, memory
Moments of forgetfulness
were once matter for laughter,
a philosophical shrug, an
angler’s tale of a
flashing silver side
that slipped
off the hook of memory.
Mary and I could sit alongside
the stream of conversation,
enjoying it like the sun and soft-afternoon air,
content to let the current carry
a word away.
Another would soon be by.
Now, I cast and cast.
I struggle to hook and haul
each wriggling, reluctant idea,
knock it on the head
and mount it where I
can see it.
Some are gone already:
Mary speaks of prince nymphs
tied together on a table in Turangi;
of a campfire trout on the Tongario’s banks;
and I smile, as if at reflection
but glimpse only rippled surface:
memory sunk beneath.
And I cast against the approaching day
I come to the river
without bait,
or sit in a garden, rod in hand,
wondering why
there is no water.
Part of the Anatomy project