Horse manure on cobbled streets,
the memory of time back when
the flats still stood on Dalston Lane,
a farthing with its jenny wren.
The fear of needles, spiders, heights
has faded slowly with the years
along with peaceful, sleep-filled nights,
stiff upper lips to hold back tears.
A list of friends, a face, a touch,
a short-term memory so shot
that now it doesn’t matter much
if I forget what I forgot.