Nov 21st – Windows to the Past

November 21st – Windows to the Past



She liked to sit

in front of the double windows

on days like this,


and not see

the grey walls opposite

that looked back at her


blankly. She liked

to see through them,

to days where the sun


was a warm breath

on the back of her neck;

her slippers sand.


She listened to the voices

of before, that cut through

the angry traffic, and


the hum of the city,

and whispered softly in her ear

of when she had looked,


and seen arches, domes,

mountains, icefields,

of when she had run,


naked, Into that lake,

alive with the shock

of the cold. Her windows


were often closed, now,

and she wondered, idly,

about painting over the frames


to stop the draughts.

But on days like these

when she could lose hours


in the caress of memory,

she knew that her windows

should stay open still.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Windows to the Past – Dead Deer

Today it was a picnic under the Humber Bridge, twenty plus years ago. Yesterday it was a hall in a YMCA we visited just once. This morning it was a corridor we walked down  once to a cafeteria, not sure where. Odd remnants of the past often pop into the mind unexpectedly. However, with the stress my mind has been under recently, along with all the self obsessing and reflection I have been doing, it is happening more frequently and more vividly than ever before.

That pancake restaurant in Krakow. The Sorting Office in Alfred Gelder Street. Ice creams with the kids on the north Norfolk coast. A pavilion dressing room of a place I only played at once. So vivid I am suddenly walking in there again, nervous of course. Unsure of myself. On my own, I haven’t thought of these things in years. I didn’t even know I remembered them.

That bar in a town in Spain we lived in for a couple of years but only visited once. We are at the bar again, and I’m slightly, very slightly, drunk and eating a circular and way too large sandwich. I didn’t remember it before but now I can taste the food, the texture of the bread as if it were in my mouth in this very moment. We didn’t finish it, not even close.

What will be next? These are not windows I choose to open, I do not even choose when to open them. They come. Tony Benn striding through the entrance at The House of Commons as we wait our turn to sit in the Stranger’s Gallery. We. Ninety-nine percent of these odd and unbidden memories are of ‘we’.

Time to close the windows; it is getting cold.

Today I wrote from 13:17 to 13:27. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here