On Discovering An Old Photograph

The older boy reminds me of me.
Could it be? Though I don’t recall
this holiday by the sea
and do wonder who the younger two are.
The children of the family
we stayed with? Maybe.

Perhaps it will all come back to me
as I write. One recalled fact
will lead to another
if I begin my autobiography.
But where to start?

Not at the very beginning. I’ll jump
to here, where maybe I was 10, 11, 12,
and I’ll delve deep into my memory
and reveal how it felt to be on the brink
of discovering who you are
and who you are meant to be.
Exciting. Scary. Incomprehensible.

And perhaps I’ll get to explain what it was like
growing up as an only child of elderly parents
whose one luxury in a frugal life
was an annual holiday
at a conservative and familiar resort.
Stifling. Dull. Excruciatingly boring.
(Which must be why, when I left home,
I never went back for years.

And years). Ah yes, the memories are returning;
we boarded at a B&B
run by a widow – Mrs Morris –
whose grandchildren were staying with her.
It became my duty to occupy them.
Which was an ok thing to do.
It made me feel grown up. I was in charge.
And they mostly did what I told them to.

Oh, and the boat. Noah’s Ark. I left them standing guard
by it for an age while I went for a wander.
I told them that, eventually, if they waited long enough,
they’d see the animals disembark two by two.
Lions. Elephants. Tigers.  Zebras. Cheetas. Snakes.
Sheep and goats. They gazed in wonder.

And now I’m wondering too; I wonder
what became of them. And have they
a memory of the big bossy boy. Do they
recall those days fondly as they
speculate on what might have become
of me. ‘Do you remember that boy
who stayed at Granny’s, who told us
the boat was Noah’s. Older than us.
Ordered us about. What was his name?’