Of the Beginning

Who is to say when things begin?

I think that it must have been in old Nelly's shop
standing silently among the tottering piles of plates.
I ransack my memory for details
but there is only light streaming through tall windows
onto dusty bowls and serving dishes.
The blue and silver pushchair must have been there somewhere,
but it is only the china that I can remember,
and old Nelly who sat on a kitchen chair among the tea chests
and talked to my mother.

It must have been then...
among the dust and the crumpled newspapers,
between the heavy black door and the worn floorboards,
beside soup plates and tureens, odd saucers and teapots.

The beginning was then.