Lake of Memories

Traveling Companion for ReadWritePoem January 14, 2008

My friend, Dottie, came over to visit this afternoon and while the guys watched football, we reminisced about our trip to England a couple years ago. Our husbands had no interest in going but, as English teachers, we were dying to visit it. At first we had visions of hitch hiking around or renting a car and just exploring like we were back in the late sixties but common sense prevailed and we joined a tour. Luckily, there were only 16 people on it so we had plenty of room on the bus and lots of free time for doing our own thing. The Annie mentioned in the poem was the tour guide and she was great.

Lake of Memories

England is but a lake
of memories
I sink into
and paddle around:
glints of flowers
like fireworks
dazzling my eyes,

Dottie’s amused face
when we would look
at each other
and mouth one of Annie’s
perfect phrases
after she had so succinctly
uttered it.
“Fluff your feathers”
comes to mind
as I spread my arms
and stroke through
the water.

The flipping of my feet
reminds me of all
the walking:
through quaint lanes,
over moors
“galloping like gazelles,”
across the park
near the Plymouth
lighthouse,
crunching the stones
on Brighton Beach,
whisking through the morning
air to the Swiss Cottage
at Osborne House
on the Isle of Wight.

We left our footprints
in England
as now I leave a slight
wake behind me.
The waves spread
wider,
wider,
but never disappear.
They catch the sun
and reflect a cup
of tea foamy
with clotted cream
and our laughter,
chandeliers dripping
opulence,
thatched roofs
like bangs
on cottage foreheads.

These ripples are part
of my brain
lapping at the shore.
Whenever Dottie and I
get together, now,
we take a dip
into that pond
and splash around.