We Carry Life’s Picture in our Heads

We carry it around in our heads and visit the places
where it once visited: Charlotte Square, gates locked
to this greenest of glades since the last of the new turf
was laid last year; now marked in time as the last time.
I mark it idling at high railings reanimating stills
of a once-tented piazza with folk on deckchairs
bookending events; a cultural Pompeii of inbetweeners
transfixed in the knowledge that it would soon be them.
Wrought in silent memory and past-cast
like the equine monument I didn’t see, Victoria’s Albert
in piebalded verdigris. For me it carried my last work;
thoughts that stirred, drank coffee and turned the pages
of books all that imaginable day, the last day. I’ll carry it
always in my head, and let it roam life’s picture there.