Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart
You didn’t tell me about your French trip, Brassie.
No. I’ve just been so frantic sewing all the name tapes into the twins’
clothes. After the start of term I always feel like another holiday. In
fact, whenever we are en vacances as a family I realise that I can’t
recreate the dream of those first magical trips across the Channel.
Yes, I responded with feeling. Do you remember the romantic holidays
with your first boyfriend? Everything was innocent in those days. There
was a sweetness that kids today will never experience, because of the
restraint, which makes the relationships all the more poignant in the
recherche du temps perdu, to make a Proustian reference.
Oh Candia, you always take a cerebral approach to life.
Not at all, I replied, taking a folded up piece of paper from my designer
vintage handbag- a trophy from Help The Ancient charity shop- before their
prices took a Himalayan hike. Read this. I found it in my desk drawer
MISTS OF TIME
It was the smallest port in France. Sea mist
stole in, shrouding an ashen harbour, name
forgotten now. I recollect we kissed,
lay curled in gloom, till dank fog damped our flame
of desire. All around loomed hydrangeas:
the palest lilac I had ever seen.
And though Time’s chromatography changes
the memory of that dimmed scene,
their hue persists; that tone tinctures my mind.
Sere shadows, like Brockenspectres assume
monumental presence; therefore I find
they remain, though all else has lost its bloom.