Looking through the book shelves - a homemade
book he chose . . .
Trapped within the forgotten pages - he came upon
a red rose . . .
Flatten down with care - faded in colour - more
so in its scent . . .
Memories such of a time - so long ago - only to himself it lent . . .
It came from a happy home - a home cherished - all
with love . . .
Every crevice packed with loving items -
fitting like a glove . . .
A garden full of noises - the song birds they
did forever sing . . .
On these evenings roll - scents from the
flowers - often ling . . .
All crafted by a man to perfection - made to
the one he loved . . .
As no other person - nor idol - to his love - did he set above . . .
There was nothing he would not do - to him a
toll well spent . . .
To share with his fair maiden - who was to him
- heaven sent . . .
Their home a range of seductive aromas - a good
woman baked . . .
The scent of fresh green grass cut - he
meaningful then raked . . .
A garden and a home - once filled with laughing
children galore . . .
With hollow sadness - wasn’t that some sixty
five years or more . . .
Silence - befalls this home now - bare - the
creaking of the gate . . .
No more idle down song birds - as the evening
draws to its fate . . .
The old man - restful in his chair - the book
between his hands . . .
Memories forgotten - now remembered - now fully
understands . . .
His weary sunken eyes closing - they are about
to open no more . . .
Over the roof top and beyond the chestnut trees
- a spirit soars . . .
No more idle down song birds - as this evening draws
to its fate . . .
Silence - befalls this home now - bare - the
creaking of the gate . . .
Indiana Shaw . . . *-*
