The black and white photographs
Dusty worn and jaded
In my fathers place
With memories faded.
High upon a mantle
So high when I was a child
Now in my hands
Thoughts from the sky.
The unpolished brass fender
Each dent and stain aloof
To the eyes of each seeker
Unmoving, the truth.
The tattered torn curtains
The armchair where he sat
Stand frozen in time
From front door to mat.
The air sparkles with dust
In sunlight caught
The mirror which captured
Our voices, our thoughts.
A good man now memory
Was he here at all ?
The fate of everyone
From carpet to hall.
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Author:
nephilim56 (
Offline) - Published: March 25th, 2024 05:21
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments1
'Was he here at all ?' Yes - I know. All I have is some very conflicting memories of my parents, sometimes very strong, sometimes quite weak...
And when I'm gone ?
Thanks for a neat poetic question.
glad you liked it many thanks
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