Twelve o’clock.
Along the empty corridors,
Held in silent envy,
Whispering silent mockings.
The floors are but stone,
And everything exuded –
Its creations and elations –
Every portrait that I pass
Laughs like a constant cymbal.
In the wand-light,
My memories are shaken and
I remember their homely tub.

Half-past one,
The pensieve swirled,
The pensieve whirled,
The pensieve drew me in and said, “Remember –
You were but fifteen. The laughs and jeers
That lit up their faces.
You see the mockery of their smiles,
They’re happy with contempt,
And you see in the corner of your eye
The red-haired girl, eyes fiery and twisted.�

The memory brings forth its friends,
A hoard of deriding things;
A shard of glass upon the grass,
Eaten; rounded, as if
It didn’t want derision.
Non-existent.
A forgotten portrait in the hall of them,
Mildew that clings to old cauldrons,
Green and scummy and eager to leave.

Half-past two,
The pensieve said,
“Remark the dog which pushed you to the tree,
Smiles widely
And watches as you slip too near death.�
So, the friend of the dog, automatically,
Reached out and saved me from the too-near death.
I could see nothing in that wizard’s eye.
I have seen eyes like a snake’s
Trying to know the world’s knowledge,
And his serpent with glimmering eyes,
Gripped to the thread of his too-near life.

Half-past three.
The pensieve swirled,
The pensieve whirled in the wand-light.

The pensieve hummed:
“Regard the Dark Lord,
Le vol de mort n’a pas ton mémoire,
He shoots an evil eye,
He sneers into corners.
He points his wand on the innocents.
The Dark Lord has lost his memory and soul.
Split-up soul cracks his face,
His hand twitches like a victim
That smells of horror and fear,
Death is near,
With all forgotten lively smells
That cease to cross his brain.

The recollection comes
Like dusty, dead chrysanthemums
And exhausted heroism,
Smells of relaxation in the streets,
And animal smells in the Owlery,
And laughter in the joke shops,
And tapping of bricks in pubs.�

The pensieve cried,
“Four o’clock,
Here is the secret.
Memory!
You have the answer,
The pensieve spills a division of glow on the stone
Floor.
The door is open; the relief hangs in the cabinet,
Hang your cloak at the entrance, walk, and here; abscond!�

The last flick of the wand.