‘Recordings’ a poem by Claire Basarich

4

Recordings

 

I miss colours most, so pictures help

and sound recordings, until the batteries run out:

I’d want them to know that there used to be more

than one plus one plus one.

 

Cards to entertain and teach

counting, song lyrics to remember words

life is simpler now, the small pleasures measured out

savoured the same as those hard candies Grandma carried.

 

Ever since the cloud came down

like the quilt she used to throw over us,

sometimes it feels like camping, just keeping our feet dry

and keeping hold of things so we won’t forget.

 

We talk more, now

to remind ourselves there were once small birds

and giant whales that sang, foxes

screeching in the garden.

 

And we play back these things, too:

a dark green wave crashing under a yellow sun,

kettle steam, storm-watching

from the window of her room

 

Maybe things won’t change. I’d still want them to know

about the clink of a clean spoon, laughter at the pub,

the angle of music playing on a street corner,

the sound of your keys in the door.

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