It’s known that images outlast

a word, or fact, number recall,

so pupils learn best, as they see,

the eyes best route to memory,

when roots were strong, supporting growth.

Where scenes encompass those we loved,

geography, some key from map,

or tea cup held when mother frail,

cracked photograph or crockery;

in sepia or welling tears,

they speak as might Kintsugi art,

with craft to bare love borne in hearts.

As I live in my seventh age

and bear foremost, memory loss,

the prompts surrounding on my shelves

bring within reach that love I’ve known.

Though dust to dust not far removed,

my helpers whisk things framed with cloth,

and battered bits and pieces stored

shine brighter, their site clearer, I.

They help me, are a complement,

and I’m complete, surrounded care.