Is It Even A Memory

24th Feb 2020

I ran a one off workshop last week, which was most inspiring. Giving prompts  and poetry to respond to,  the   group of six eager  writers spent an hour and a half getting their words down in their journals, each producing some really creative work.
As I was leading I didn't have the same head space as I usually do but I did do a little something.
The first exercise I suggested was to write to the prompt, "I remember" without taking the pen off the paper - free writing. From there we then wrote again in a more detailed way with what came from that.
This second task is where this poem came to life.

Is It Even A Memory?

Is it even a memory,
that day when the sun shone bright,
that day mum sent me out to play,
I was only three.
Can I trust that I remember
that worm that I ate,
that worm that hung from my mouth,
while I, keeping cool,
played under the caravan?

I see a little girl with blond curls.
She picks up the worm
 from the soft, squelchy mud,
her blue eyes wide, smiling.
She turns the creature
over and over in her hands,
rubs it down her dress,
the dress with the red roses on.
Gently, she rolls it in her fingers,
then, swiftly, she pops it
in her mouth.
She does not recoil - as I do now,
or grimace at the taste.
No, she stands triumphant.
She is queen.
She has conquered her prey.
The worm now hangs from her lips,
wriggles,
the little girl giggles.
Her freedom eludes me today,
as does her joy - passionate, pure.
When did I lose that innocence,
that sense of adventure?
That little girl is gone now.
Sometimes, I wish I could go back,
just for a while,
and join her under the caravan.