A Winding Down
By mark_yelland-brown
- 575 reads
Naked men throwing spears on a Grecian urn,
the faint smell of lavender
a wall clock tick-tocking with a depth that intimates a sombre moment.
He snores in his battered arm-chair,
while the spirits in the room wait and congregate.
A mish-mash of aged photographs, mostly unframed,
adorn the tattered walls,
the mostly empty book shelves , naked-pale and full of dust.
Someone is not quite dying,
but considerately preparing for death.
A table scarred and candle-waxed burnt, has small hills of correspondance, private letters,
intertwined with utility bills and cards of condolence.
His hearing aid and glasses rest on the small stool beside him nestling in the glow of an unfinished Scotch.
There is a vague melody weaving him in and out of his afternoon nap,
he wakes with a start,
finishes the last line of the unbidden tune,
and nods at the empty chair opposite,
where lately his wife does not inhabit.
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