The past is forever being reinvented,

Edited, culled, amended, purged,

Would we recoil in absolute horror,

If something closer to the truth emerged?

Our tethered lives, our scatty brains,

The grubby compromises made from Day One

The fighting out of bombastic battles,

Until only our battered shells remain,

Fleeing home, through the driving rain.

 

Most days are best swept under the carpet,

Consigned to the bin, we’re glad they’re gone.

 

My past - the bit I choose to remember -

A day in Malton, when the sun once shone…