Images of distant snowmen
long melted and gone
haunt my eyes.
The heat of other summers
warms my skin
as my feet try to kick through
thirty year old fallen leaves.
It seems my memories are filling my senses.
Is this what is means to grow old?
I have many years yet to go
much more time to forge more memories.
This storage crisis needs to end.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
The skins of memory
stretched across drums
vibrate with feeling
Copyright © 2020 Kim Whysall-Hammond
We are all three children
ready for school at last.
But who can go this morning?
Mum sits on the stairs crying
railing against our tardy ways.
She complains of our constant
losing of gloves and hats
not to mention sports kit
and of how hard it is to get us all ready.
My little brothers stand open-mouthed
frightened by this collapse of motherhood.
Older, I am far more worried about not
getting to school on time.
I’m still not allowed to walk there on my own
although the neighbour’s girl my age can,
and I’m wary of shepherding two
wayward little boys across the road to the school.
But, as Mum raises her voice in yet another wailing moan
I decide this must be done.
I pat her on the hand, and tell her
that I’ll do it today, then
I open the door.
Suddenly, I’m slapped, shouted at
called a little madam.
Suddenly, it’s fine for Mum to take us.
Crying, I hop from foot to foot
impatiently as she gets ready,
her ‘face’ needs to be put on which
always takes forever.
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Over twenty years after the end
gardens still had hollow mounds
or curved corrugated tin domes half buried
some doing duty as tool sheds
many simply as they were
when the bombing stopped
full of the detritus of nights spent sheltering
while death flew overhead
Mounds and tunnels riddled
our playing fields
dry brick-lined hiding places
against bombers seeking factories
and factory workers
to blast and wreck
we used them for massive games of hide and seek
London streets had gaps, play spaces
festooned with stately spires of
purple flowers, amid mossy rubble
the occasional crumpled saucepan
so much broken crockery
As a child, our father collected bullets and bomb shards
watched fighters fall crashing out of the sky
and ran to collect souvenirs while the metal was still hot
I and my brothers knew wars last remnants
and played amongst ghosts
Copyright © 2019 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In Memoriam
Caring for your grave,
trimming edges, pulling weeds
tending flowers.
Cleaning the headstone,
tracing the words with my fingers
‘As yet unfinished’.
The dates are ridiculous,
it hasn’t been that long.
Wounds heal, yet scars remain.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
In memory of Isosceles Hammond, stillborn 28th April 1996
Images of distant snowmen
long melted and gone
haunt my eyes.
The heat of other summers
warms my skin
as my feet try to kick through
thirty year old fallen leaves.
It seems my memories are filling my senses.
Is this what is means to grow old?
I have many years yet to go
much more time to forge more memories.
This storage crisis needs to end.
Copyright © 2018 Kim Whysall-Hammond
Memory
Lost in the dynamic of memory
Drowsing in the heat
Breathing scents of my childhood
Unsettled
Breezes rouse and cool
Jets drone high above
Sinking into my minds depth
In the embrace of warm afternoon
Copyright © 2017 Kim Whysall-Hammond
