Behind the closed doorThe 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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