You sang along
To a song on the radio –
it was old, vintage stuff
nineteen sixties, I presume
the melody lingered in my head
as I ploughed through
City Hall records
pruning branches on my family tree.
Did I ever tell you that my grandfather
on my mother’s side was a blacksmith,
I desired a more exotic find –
a naval captain, or an art collector.
I wish I knew the name of that song
that you sang for days,
the tune spun wildly through my crowded head:
I hoped it was a new release
so that I could take it home
to give my thoughts eternal peace.
Music has that affect,
it plants tiny seeds of joy
that linger for weeks, sometimes years
just like stories from the past
bright, cold or dark, they stay with us
memories always last.
When you sing that song
I eat, breathe and smell the days
that we often hide away
put to bed: closure.
There will always be a past,
there will be history tomorrow.