waiting to visit,
wrapped in strange poetic smells–
a wintry sun

at great aunt’s house.
aunt confined by grief, illness,
obsession, piety

houses huddled by
the darkened church of Combray,
unreal in my mind

house, town, morning, night
flooded back by madeleine
from my cup of tea

and suddenly the
memory revealed itself–
Sundays at Combray

palpitating
in the depths of my being–
memory evades

called into being,
abyss of uncertainty,
mind overtaken

many years later
filled with a precious essence–
petites madeleines

worthwhile memories
are involuntary,
defeated by death

for long afterwards
old memories of Combray
clouded