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January 2014, vol 9, no 4

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Gerry Jacobson


Summer evening lingers. Walking over the heath together with the easy loping stride of long distance walkers. She asks if I remember the place. “No!” I reply “But my hair’s standing up on end!” I have no visual memory. Well it has been sixty years and the trees have grown. But I’m trembling. My body remembers. It’s the place where I lived when I was two years old. Was I was pushed over these paths in a pram? Did I play on this grass as a toddler?

of belonging …
in the soft light
of a Hampstead café …
your face glowing