Behind the closed door




The brass door-knob turns,
A wooden door, apple-green
Opens and I step in,
Into a den of memories.
Here, a pair of armchairs,
Their mangy coats
Now ridden with dust,
Their laps filled with booty
From a forgotten age.

Their arms welcome me,
On them I sit a while
Ponder from my viewpoint
From my nine-year old horizon
Who owned these things?
Who left them in decline
Lit only by weak shafts
Of morning sun through
The negelcted window net?

There, in a grey niche
Books, now fusty damp
Stuffed on to shelves
Once cared for.
Above them, the framed smiles
Of unlikely kittens
Beside the faded images
Of roses, leaves and ribbons.

Grandma does not know
I crept into her room
And clambered over her past;
Her memories now mine.


Wendy

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