Washing Lines

The past is not a foreign place,
But a washing line of pegged-up memories - a blur
of polaroids undated,
Rising in roseate hues and sinking in yellow candlelight
that was and was not there.

A silent gathering of wind shakes the images cruelly,
And rattling, rattling, one is pushed so far to the side of my head,
It seeps out like steam through my eyes and ears.
And then it envelops me
in a nauseous shroud of angst quelled, and love heightened
by time.

We stand before me now,
Unobserved,
On the edge of a wooded path,
The June air is so hot it stings my infant nose and ears,
and scorches the shingles to an angry dust cloud
of itch and grit.

You suck in breath over sharp teeth,
Bending terse on one knee to thumb
away the dirty droplets that streak like spiders' legs
down cheeks.
My cheeks,
Free from the slap of modernity,
Not knowing liqueur from lemonade.

That age of innocence will dissipate,
But there now,
Our blotting eyes show no sign of the future
and there is no past as yet to speak of.

Let it always be like this,
Just being, being
Daddy and me.