August, Greenstead Pond and Memories, Alison Murphy

Myopic, distance glasses removed, a Monet landscape revealed on the edge of town; algae, not lily pads, pattern a shivering pond. Somewhere, behind a heavy hedge, an engine ticks...
 
Memories erupt from this stretch of tarmac, a kaleidoscope of sodium and white lights, spinning transparent plastics, student shouting, laughing, beer breathing,  red eyes of cigarettes and joints burning, revolving, smoke clouds and worms...
 
Ah, do I hear again the electronic song, the dull hum of the grey pylons serenading the old student blocks? The bricks are brown as freshly chopped wood, the windows dark as water; the buildings sit mostly empty, quiet as sunshine, waiting in this damp heat...
 
Memories cascading, a waterfall of faces, pushing, sweeping, a wave of time crashes...
 
Distance glasses returned, sharp edges, shrill voices of children playing, cut blades of grass, sun hard as steel, bullrushes spearing up towards a patient sky. The engine stops ticking. I miss my Monet moment and then I see lily pads, not just algae, pattern the shimmering pond.