Memory Sharp
It has come to this… my darling…
With the years gone over,
With the truth acknowledged
You are not coming back.
It is entering a room
Where the curtains are drawn,
Where dust lies heavy
On the table top.
Sudden — your name — scrawled in the gloom —
And the mouth gone dry,
And the heart stopped!
Gift Shop Window
Apple Annie, ancient and weather-beaten
Her amazing garments huddled about her,
Bent almost double to peer in the window —
She stood on the one foot… and then on the other
And nodded her head like a great dark crow.
Her old lips moved in some mumbo-jumbo
But what she said was her own dark secret.
The wine-glasses winked in their pewter holders,
A bewildering array of costume jewellery
Of filigreed ivory and cornflower crystal
Was spread like the spoils of a pirate frigate
For Apple Annie's remote appraisal.
Some place, far back in the mind's recess
The hunger for Beauty stirred in sleep.
A little smile, like a secret fragment
Of dimly-remembered and lost delight
Moved, like the stir of a small frail fan
On a face that was wrinkled and dim with age.
With a hesitant gesture, desire engendered,
Her old hands fluttered against the pane
Twisted and gnarled… and pitifully empty…
Fluttered … and moved … and were still again!
Sire
My mother was a lady
With hair like silk
And eyes like gentians
And a skin like milk.
But my father loved laughter
And the flowing bowl —
And his eyes were dark mischief —
"Rest his soul!"