Memory of things to come

There’s a little brown box 

that sits among the debris on my desk.

On its lid, four skinny boys,

in black and white, 

sit on an English beach,

in matching woolly jumpers, 

and plastic sandals.

Inside, like treasure in a chest,

lies a chrome pen drive.

It holds edited highlights

of the four boys lives;

seaside holidays and family parties, 

self-consciously enacted 

for the ancient cine camera,

and captured in silent grainy colour.

But the pen drive has plenty of space:

a blank canvas

for the works of art

that would be their lives.

Those four little boys grew up,

painted their pictures,

lived technicolour, surround sound stories,

wove their threads into a tapestry;

intertwined with the world,

away from the old cine camera.

I thought to fill up the empty megabytes

with images of my own

from down the years.

But then a thought took me:

that space is not really empty - 

it’s full of possibilities;

unnumbered masterpieces,

all conceivable futures,

four boys’ dreams.

Paths have been taken, 

promise fulfilled... potential untapped,

loves found, 

                    loves loved,  

                                        loves lost.

The road we’ve travelled is longer, now,

than the one that lies ahead.

But there’s still room;

memory enough for future pathways,

crossroads, diversions,

on that chrome pen drive,

in a treasure chest box. 

Memory of things to come.