RECOLLECTIONS

RECOLLECTIONS

The rhythm was even, and gentle,

to and fro, to and fro…

For so many years he dreamed,

whiling away the hours

as he rocked the memories

gently in his mind.

It was all so quiet now,

not like before, so many years ago.

Then, he'd often thought

that the noise was making tunnels in his mind.

It was then that he'd wished

for silence. Not now.

He was at peace with himself

and with the world

but still, he couldn't help recalling

the sounds of times gone past.

At one time, his verandah

reverberated with the hoops

of fierce Red Indians

fighting for their lives. 

Wild battles with Custer's men

threatened to rock the very foundations

of his existence..

but gentle little nurses waited nearby.

Nothing was left unnoticed,

or unloved. The pots of palms

became jungles, hiding wild animals..

A discarded light shade

shielded a great white hunter

from the steamy glare

of the jungles of imagination.

Such times they were!

Only the cream of local society

was invited to the tea parties.

Gingerbread men, wearing garbs

of peppermint icing, nestled cosily

alongside pink frosted patty cakes,

proudly crowned with a glistening red cherry.

Tiny white china cups held promises

of cool, sticky lemonade.

To and fro, to and fro, he rocked..

crumbs of memories

scattered in his dreams.

The gate squeaked, a whoop, a cry!

A laughing cluster of children

tumbled up the path.

"Grandad, it's us..

we've come to stay!"

Crissouli (c) 2011


image from the British Library collection
no known copyright