The colors are gray.
The box, brown cardboard grayed with age.
The tin inside.
She scrapes the layers of dust, a hint of light
Of days gone by.
It rattles.
Dry.
Then prize the lid, bent hinge, gray rust that showers
A fringe of powder on the page.
The tiny squares
Holes worn away have left their imprints there.
She damps a finger end and wipes and wipes
Till ochre tears are falling
Blending sight.
She sees the paintblock’s art
Start calling
Out her name to memories
To hearts that cry.
The colors all are gray
But childhood’s sun was yellow too
Like finger-end
And daffodils
The light shines through and blends.
Till attic boxes scattered lie
With brightly colored childhood
In a world that never dies.
© Sheila Deeth, April 2009
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Comments: 34
I like what John Beck said...
Dropping by with a 10 for you
Flippity Floppity, Zippity Zee
And a great big HI from Pooh and Me!
Splendid!
standing close by
sneezing from the dust
saw the tear swell in your eye
Wonderfully writ dear poetess.
In a a dusty old attic
Memories come forth.
10 4 u
bravo!