I cannot remember
I cannot remember
The house where I was born
But I know it was in Waldegrave Road
Teddington, Middlesex
Not far from the border of Surrey
An unpretentious abode
Which, I believe,
Economy forced us to leave
In rather a hurry.
But I can remember my grandmother’s Indian shawl
Which, although exotic to behold,
Felt cold.
Then there was a framed photograph in the hall
Of my father wearing a Norfolk jacket,
Holding a bicycle and tennis racket
And leaning against a wall
Looking tenacious and distinctly grim
As though he feared they’d be whisked away from him.
I can also remember with repulsive clarity
Appearing at a concert in aid of charity
At which, I sang, not the “Green Hill Far Away” that you know
But the one by Gounod.
I remember a paperweight made of quartz
And a sombre Gustave Doré engraving
Illustrating the Book of Revelations
Which, I am told, upset my vibrations.
I remember too a most peculiar craving
For “Liquorice All Sorts”
Then there was a song. “Oh that we two were Maying”
And my uncle, who later took to the bottle, playing
And playing very well
An organ called the “Mustel”
I remember the smell of rotting leaves
In the Autumn quietness of suburban roads
And seeing the Winter river flooding
And swirling over the tow-path by the lock.
I remember my cousin Doris in a party frock
With Broderie Anglaise at the neck and sleeves
And being allowed to stir the Christmas pudding
On long ago, enchanted Christmas Eves,
All this took place in Teddington, Middlesex
Not far from the Surrey border
But none of these little episodes
None of the things I call to mind
None of the memories I find
Are in chronological order
Is in chronological order.