The Pages Turn Yellow

The pages turn yellow before me -
when I pick up another slim volume
that is not mine
I find it changed from crisp and
pristine to soft and brown - the
decay of memory
passing with time.

My own hopes still unsung
as I wait for my own
bright passages to
pass before my eyes on the page -
I rage the day and
have no power
over editors.

My way, fraught, from there
to here sees a
young endeavour almost done
a worry-bone of the mind
about to be cast-off, set free.

Do I remain me
surrounded by images and
cloths, by days and breezes,
all the forsaken leavings of the
heart?  Much parting
sours my pages and I
remember the day I decided

to suggest Monopoly, at Christmas,
remembering my Grandmother, the green
card table and the
tasselled standard lamp
with its yellow light -

the cards were tat and small,
grubby, worn, not
crisp and cream as they had been,
the box battered
and the tied string
holding it together.  Disappointment
choked my throat
and the stuff was put away
removed from my eyes.

So much of childhood relies
on the brightness of the mind
yet our human hands
cannot hold such gifts - 
of preservation - outwith our
power the single moment
that lasts forever yet
forever dies.
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