What to remember (for Ian and Suz)

Barked knuckles in the smoke-breathed afternoon
conkers strung and clacked, pints sipped
chips defended from the pub Labrador, or palmed
into his soft-mouthed grin.

It was Organized Fun, as the leaves came down
as the river murmered over its stones
settling them in place, taking stock of its winter stores
there were ironic grins, and silly voices put on
there were shrieks and laughings as the leaves came down.

There was the old concentration swimming up
from where it had been stacked in rolls of crumpled sugar paper.
Our grown-up-ness thinned in the seriousness of the game
in our mittened hand-in-handing, in our wrapped-up-well.

There was mugging for the camera
and jokes ringing loud. There was self-conscious nostalgia
and the whirr, click, send.
The river murmered over its stones, its winter stores.
The leaves kissed their own reflections and started to race.

When the last conker was in bits, the last string snapped;
inside, for last drinks and the stove’s blaring warmth.
Already we were filching souvenirs from the afternoon,
drafting notes-to-self on pocketed leaves.

I memorised the interlock of flagstones beneath my feet
Knowing that they would be useful if ever the ground gave way.
I filed a bootlace next to the stickybackplasticked dust
of ancient collages, the eroded records of nature-walks.
I had almost finished archiving when you glanced at each other, and spoke.

And it’s possible that not every leaf was a shard of gold,
That the river didn’t murmer blessings all day long.
But you have over-written the data now,
made memory partial, tinted all of our glasses rose.

Your smiles, our delight, handclaps and hugs,
Have filled the evidence with joyful flaws.
Each snapshot has been double-exposed
by your love
which gilded us all in that moment,
like the heat from the stove’s wide door.