Silhouettes of humanity mingle freely here,
The past to cherish, the present to fear.
History is their ringmaster, cracking the whip,
Across wardrobes of dried in stained mahogany,
Across a kitchen table, an archaic wooden drawer in its centre,
Across beds, that living septuagenarians were born in,
Across a giant dishevelled armchair,
Transported on the back of a Bedford, in the year of the big snow.
A gaping chest of drawers, cumbersome and heavy,
Tilting slightly, like a punch-drunk boxer,
Reveals images in black and white,
Of weddings and, newspaper cuttings, from a previous century.
These minions of cherished memories,
Refusing to depart their stubborn perch,
Bound tightly around the heart,
Of one, who will not let them go.
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