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pulling forward
the dusty
cardboard memory box
from it's hidey hole
beneath pressure deadened springs
the metal framework hangs low
scratching the surface
I carefully lift them out
and tears begin to well
they stare at me
unaffected by time
from stages in life
birth
nursery
school
college
then there are no more
and the box is padded out with bills
statements
old insurance certificates
mortgage updates
time has been
time has gone
time now drip ….
drip.....
drips...... away
OMG !!! I don't want to just drip drip away but sadly I think i've gone down the plug hole but I have still got the dusty cardboard memory box!!
A thoughtful but scary poem John. It is funny how little we start to record our own lives once we have children. It all becomes about someone else and that middle bit of our lives gets swallowed up by all the stuff in the 4th verse of your poem - building a nest for children...
I'm hoping my life doesn't drip, drip away too soon - I've only just kick started it again LOL. I love your observations. x
And I just recently went through this experience...
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Elaine Booth
Sun 22nd May 2011 19:06
Such a poignant poem, John. So strange the things we keep and what they record. What is it they say, about 2 things you can't avoid in life - death and the taxman! Think I've more old bits of paper to do with filthy lucre than anything else. Find the end of the photos in your poem very sad. But it leaves me pondering as to who and why and this leads the reader (well, me anyway) to make up stories to fill this space. XX