In the corner of the eye of memory. I scan scenes encrusted in verdigris;
I dimly see communal commotions, half hear the hum of the day, spices being ground in querns, ready for tasteful dishes to be made.
At tender ages what could be served at the table did not preoccupy us; we were entirely free to be ourselves in playfulness. Into the misty distance certain things can only seem vivid.
1 December 2017