The dry window ledge is thick with aged cream paint.
A dying wasp scrapes up against the glass
Only to drop lifeless
Joining dry husks on the dog tired carpet.
My finger draws down a glacier of dust on the mahogany chest.
A mottled looking-glass blurs my reflection
And from behind the wardrobe door
Hang ranks of furs and summer dresses.
The bed has a drowning soft enveloping mattress.
Blankets are pink and smell of camphor and clean linen
Where a solitary resting maiden Aunt kept vigil
And shuddered as she expected the invasion to come.
The crucifix is at an angle and mended with yellowing tape.
Pictures of rural life in warped frames are snapshots of what was
To be lost and now fade as blades of speckled evening sun
Push through thinning but once bushy flowery drapes.
In the corner the gramophone with an inch of tight spring dares me to try.
Black discs in buff envelopes jostle for attention
Slip noiselessly to the purple baize of the turntable
And the band begins to play then slows and drifts and stops.
In the quiet outside the hall clock is awake in the afternoon heavy heat.
Closing this room of memories, the door catch barely holds any weight
And softly clicks leaving time to settle as worn floor boards ease and merge
They whisper and hold their stories safe in a room never used.
One thought on “The spare room at Brooklawn”
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