A street.
A side street off a main street.
A gravel driveway that curves left.
A mailbox, red flag down.
Bucolic, ordinary.
I notice it as I drive past at main street speed.
And in that split second
I remember you and me,
rows of strawberries,
laughing red fingered,
picking baskets of fruit,
early, early, early,
before the heat of another summer morning found us.
Matilda Magtree 
I have memories that jump decades and countries but for me the prompt is often weather, so I was surprised–assuming–perhaps mistakenly?–that the side street and gravel in the pome belong to the winter photo and wondered how that triggered a summer flashback. But… I’m being too literal.
I do not have a poem brain but wonder sometimes if I could write pomes.
Of course you could write pomes! You probably already do.
(The photo is taken near a place we used to pick strawberries. It’s possible it only makes sense to me. This is the wonder of pomes…)
The memory’s GPS as a trigger–well, sure!
Also, it’s by landmarks, not directions, that I travel, or know where I am.