It must be the same for everyone;
we hold special memories
of when the world felt balanced.
Here's one of mine: walking into
Winchester Cathedral, late afternoon
with the light slanting horizontally
along the arches and the organ
pealing. I rang with joy.
“But what about people?” you say.
If you want people,
I'll give you my three year old
inciting his cousins to kick a ball
up and down the long aisle.
This memory is part of who I am;
I want it to outlast my burial,
to be released it into the world
so that long, long after my body
is mulched into the ground
my memory will still be drifting
over oceans, hovering
across hills and mountains.
