The Custodian

The Custodian A thousand memories scattered all around me on the ground. Bands march past in uniforms but never make a sound. Rivers run, and kids have fun among the seaside throng, revellers with beery faces sing a silent song. Hop pickers mixed with Monarchs mixed with young boys from the war, who’s eyes belie the message’s of things they’d done and saw. A mountain, dogs, The Parthenon. A sleepy village street, with someone riding carriage past some willow trees that weep. Women stand with garish hats while men-folk sit austere, where children dressed in smartest clothes are stood in front of here. A smiling man stands proudly with his new car beside him, long since recycled many times from ships to baked bean tins. Who was the last custodian, who held the treasured key to places, names of loved ones who are staring back at me. Is this the end, an auction, all these memories that’s past, lives, loves pain and friendships, “sold”, That box of photographs… Dan Lake