It's like that time we found
your dictaphone on the shelf.
Although you'd died several
months before, your voice sounded
in the kitchen then, it ran across
the walls leaving trails in the dust
before coming to rest on the table top.
A thin and crackling sound,
the analogue of your former self.
A fragment, an echo, ephemeral
and yet my mother was surrounded
then by memories stained with moss.
For now, living trails in your trust
before coming to rest, a headstone atop.
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The idea of someone's spoken voice recorded and kept, it's a haunting thing. The first three and a half lines say it all. x
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