It is what I do and it works.

It is what I do and it works.

Acts of remembrance.

Even sitting at a plastic table

With a flat white

The screech of conversation

All but drowning out the songs of the morning

Cockatoos and Rosellas

Jostling for space

I can remember the need to write a letter.

The act of lifting a pen

Full of Indian ink

Beginning to form the words

The smell of a cigarette

The curl of smoke from a tray

The spill of ash on a white tablecloth

The clink of a bone china cup.

Her silhouette against the sky

Red hair catching the sun

Setting the sky ablaze.

Tending the garden

Cleaning leaves

Pruning the clematis

Tucking her hair

Behind an ear

Absentmindedly.

Unaware of the impact

Her appearance made

The curve of her back

As she sank to her knees

Scooping up a basket

Of weeds

To drop into the composter.

Spending time apart

Wishing we were not.

Together we would send

Postcards from faraway places

They would arrive after we were home.

Gentle were the reminders

When every trip

Was an excursion

It was as mysterious a word

As exotic

And we would write it down

Fit it into the conversation

As if we were imparting

Wisdom for the ages

Whilst sitting cross-legged

At a silver service table

In the restaurant Car

Upon the Orient Express.

When every trip

Was more rightly termed

A European Tour

A suitcase was made of leather,

Handbound.

Portmanteaus were de-rigueur

For the well-to-do’s

What on earth possessed the world?

Backpackers have more fun

The smell of unwashed bodies

Is more common

Than a Sobranie

At a pavement cafe table.

But the need to recall

The moment

A pen scratched a few words

Across an unlined sheet

Of vellum,

The tilt of her head

When she read an old postcard,

Is enough

To warm my heart,

As the coffee cools.