Those Things We Wrote (Poetry)

I come across them every now and then —
dog-eared poems like postcards to myself
and where exactly they came from
I puzzle over, curious to know
what place I was in then — often dated
(for the record) undiaried years ago

The writing’s mine — I recognise
its style and the underlying tow
of tides emotional —
some wishy-washy karmic ebb and flow
life has since outgrown
the small scribblings of a girl
oblivious to blinkers on her eyes

I cut my younger self a little slack
they’re not entirely wordy bric-a-brac
collecting so much dust
there is the germ of something —
a ‘Where’s Wally’ clue
to a particular location printed black
in amongst the lovesick waves
a biro drew

I follow that direction. Wander back
and marvel as I would at someone else
convinced I was another person then
who just like now wrote postcards
to herself