A place as real as any other
occupying jagged and rusting fragments of memory
the landscape pitted and scarred
a minefield strewn with the rubble of old hurts and sorrows
through which my mind habitually and skilfully dodges
carefully swerving certain issues
finding detours and diversions
picking my way through the salvage of my past
yet ever returning to that familiar track
like a worn groove in an old vinyl, crackling, deafening.
a needle that’s stuck, going over and over and yes, maddeningly so.
until with the help of a timely and forceful nudge,
can jump forward and break free
I’ll still visit from time to time, but I’m not stopping
Marcella
January 2017
sense seeker 