Perhaps it happens more often than we realise,
when the forgotten becomes the remembered,
when a scent or a taste resurrects things
so deeply buried in our memory it’s as if
we’re experiencing them for the first time.
This morning, entering Moorlands Woods
the scent of bluebells reached me before
I really noticed the swathes of blue
between the trees, my lungs involuntarily
taking a double breath, prompting me to think,
how could I ever have forgotten this sweetness?
Last night I dreamt of my parents when
they were young and healthy, my mother’s
red hair, my father’s arms with a summer tan.
Perhaps sometimes it is worth forgetting
if remembering provides us with such joy.
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