Primary Colours
Nov 29 2009


Children in snowsuits
on a field dusted with snow,
are a box of new crayons, assorted colours
scribbling all over
the smooth white surface.

Cold enough for clouds of breath,
like cartoon word-bubbles
over every head.
Containing the carefully traced letters
of childhood,
head bent, pencil gripped
in concentration.
Their shrieks and giggles
the recurring sound-track
to a barely remembered past.

I know how untrustworthy memory can be,
constructed out of family mythology
and flashes of imagery,
confabulation
filling-in the blanks.

We played Red Rover —
the fiercely gripped hands
the taunting chant
the charge,
veering at the very last moment
for the weakest link.
And falling in a heap
as the line collapsed.
Wet snow down your pants,
something torn.
Wool mitts
chunks of ice frozen-in,
numb toes.

How hours could pass
in giddy action.
And how warm sentiment
preserves everything
in primary colours.
With the brilliant reflection
of sunlight on snow.