Old
statisticians never die: their samples just get smaller
Houses revisited where
we holidayed confront us
with furnishings,
magazines,
décor, beds and utensils,
from our world that
pertained
when we were here decades
ago,
surprise us with vivid
replay memories
insecurely linked
to the passing trade
of now.
When we were thirty
renewed encounters with
places
from our childhood surprised
us:
trees once tall
had shrunk, the long mile
we walked to the shop as
kids
for lemonade on holiday
was now quite short.
Ten years since last
I repaired our letter box
atop a garden post.
Today it was askew,
screws rusted out.
This was not how I
remembered it.
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