The memories of rabbits
Braunton Burrows. 
Come evening, when the dogs go home,
rabbits emerge, investigating everything.
Here, an empty crisp bag,
Here, some creature marked its place.
Here berries ripened on a bush
and songbirds had their fill.
But here is unusual:
can they remember this?

The big white hotel looks down on them still.
A young man was a chef here, 
learning his trade.
After a while he met a smart receptionist
and in the early afternoon
when lunch was gone and dinner far away
they’d walk in the dunes
stopping in some hidden place
to play love games.

The rabbits know of love games:
through each young couple’s different scent,
there is a commonality.

For all its trickery,
for all its wilful deceits,
sometimes the world deals it straight.
Sometimes the couples who play in the dunes
get married, settle down,
start warrens of their own:
Mum and Dad, Scilla and John, Allan, Phil and Pete;
in every way a family.
We would go for walks on moors and fells 
and down by the beach,
running and screaming, splashing in a stream,
while they made picnics
and slowly grew old.

Grew old and died.

Rabbits don’t read Ecclesiastes.
“Ashes to ashes” means nothing to them, 
but maybe in this bitter dust there’s a hint of a smell 
of their love, which never died,
and if the memories of rabbits are long
perhaps they will recognise. 


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Allan_Marsden
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Synopsis
Written 2009 after scattering the ashes of my parents. It's OK, but not quite what I'd like it to be.
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