Knowing her through the
brightest, loudest things on Earth. 
Searing sand
and the sound of children’s footsteps.
A ferocity of snow over the Isle of Arran. 
Sun shone through like an egg yolk
and West Coast accents made
spells of laughter.  Listened to
Count Basie and shells falling. 
Made
cake and custard,
crafts, Christmas cards,
clay moulded by tiny hands.
In a luxury of sleepless years lived
glowing blue nights, talking with her husband
until dawn bloomed like a bruise. 
Every golden thing is
odd-shaped in memory until Time’s maternal fingers
smooth it out. 
Neatening the creases
in the dunes.  Contours of her absence. 
My memories know memories 
and Mary speaks within them.