Visual concrete, lack of it

I am fewer than six

Above an age where memory

forms

But since it has blurred

I wiggle down grey 

Zeds

to the vine courtyard

recovering from a scrape

It is not a school day

Avram is visiting

And wants to meandre to the vegetable

stands 

Off white his plastic bag 

I too walk along the long road

where I gave up the tricycle

and the neighbours had funny names

now long gone, had they ever existed?

The market square is there

with that document office my father

once popped into, when he came back

from his long coach drives

on the Autobahn

This looked dark at christmas

And homely light

It is a while still to the

farm/family houses

of cousins and odd relations

We trod on

Names I cannot envision

A language I barely speak now

I scarce do

A newspaper now would take great length

at a snail's crawl

We passed the bright shp

where I got my safari book

Of pride, of giraffes,

Of things that

       I had to wait till the next country to see

The crossroads patterned their

zebras thrice -at least-

until the petrol pump

Take a turn right, no not up the

Hill to Sibiu, nor the way back

I remember seeing this place before

when Elizabetha took us to the

Church, Daylight mass

and I just wanted the

candy

The road where Mircea too

grazed his knee

And second cousins dotted the

Era's blocks

The large double brick

red metal doors beckoned

the long courtyard to follow

where wars were crafted on

square screens

And there was that animated

fish - weird, scary

Odd how the last encounter

was a supper we shared

with the fried fish we hardly

caught

And you ate the head

And I saw your shaking hands

And we cried