Eight years or four or nine from now,
whatever length of time
separates daily knowledge
from passing reminders,
will you recognise me ?
Catch a snapshot of form
and colour and stance
that can only mean one other
and turn to say something ?
Or will the template have blurred,
its once perfect edge softened by time ?
No longer catching memory’s trailing fingers.
I’d know him dipped in treacle my grandmother would say.
Now she is gone from the list
of those who give pleasure
in an unexpected meeting.
Those where we savour the surprise
without the aftertaste.
Where the smiles of recognition
start conversation
seamless and soft,
no debate on whether
acknowledgement can be delayed
or denied.
Surprise me.
