PHOTOGRAPHER'S DIARY: NOT MEMORIES
Perhaps not actual childhood
memories, though many of us had
bicycles like that one.
I frequently pedaled mine up
the road to where Mr. Chisholm had his cows,
to where we'd found amid a pasture,
in a hurst and thicket of brambles,
the monument to Major Thomas Thomas,
to where the road turned
to dirt and the fragrance
of horse sweat
and by then the sun warmed the air,
and I smelled the sweet grass,
and pedaled home to breakfast.
But it's not the memories,
but their confluence.
