Bell Lane

Better not to wander up Bell Lane
all in bloom,
past the tyre and discarded shoe,
the broken door by the ruined wall
of the imaginary dream house.

Better not to wander
to the archive on the hill
but wander I will,
down corridors half-remembered,
past doors I may not enter
where boxes and cans are stored,
that tell only half a story.

Better not to wander
to a white house made of dust,
but wander I must,
still further, deeper,
to the hub of memory
where in cells as cold as death,
history crumbles to nothing.

Better not to wander
up Bell Lane,
but I’ll wander again,
wander again.