In Memory

My memory is

a tailored suit black cuff button rolled

flipped and wedged between dusty wainscot and wooden floor.

.

It is four heavy old pennies balanced and stacked

beneath the leg of a lopsided make-do desk.

.

And then I may take the middle of a punched paper hole

scuffed and left by the soul of a Brogue.

.

In perpetuity it will bear faintest traces

of the stale scent of slim cigars

emanating from a plastic-lined basket-work bin.

.

It will not be wiped either

by its one string slither of a shedding mop.

.

There will be a sound too –

a sound insistent as a stylophone;

like the thrum of Anglia cars through thin windows.

.

And oh yes, its colours will always be orange – 

orange and bottle green.