Stage Left

the fragments of memory assert their presence and bring the past into the moment, to haunt us and steal our composure. Thus you appear in the wings, waiting to enter left, and assume centre stage. the audience awaits, breathless, in anticipation of the delivered speech, and you pause, ever for effect. But then you speak, and truth shudders in her bower, hiding her face in shame. “Trust me”, you say, as might have the wife of Macbeth, as she brushed blood from her sleeve. And I did; for I was foolish, and a simple man, who trusted his instincts. and my instincts failed me, and such love as once you might have had was not enough to stem what fears took their hold, and fuelled rejection and my despair. but memory does not care for feelings or composure, and asserts its presence;