I have a bookcase.
It’s shallow, dark skined, breadth and depth holds the printed breath of passed ages.
Ecelectically upright, leaves open, ready reading
Adorned, once lovingly, with photographs of a lifetime, now slowly fade and gather dust.
Friendly faces smile out, paper thin, time stretched. A cat ‘King Willie’ balanced within an apple tree see’s me from his silvered frame. Babies beam. A bride flushed with a days pleasures.
A flat tin, marked ‘Gardening’, it’s contents sealed, sits where it was last placed. The mystery now lies in its next movement.
Silent faced mantle clock, tockless ticking in the drying sun, case casting seasonal shadows.
Eight leather bound and golden guilt gilded volumes of ‘The Great War’, whose contents could not ever be at greater odds. Quixotically tilting, tiny fingers of paper scraps mark pages once read.
A ball mask. A Greek vase. Tin boat. Plectrums. Finger puppet mouse, whose grandmother of pearl heart is pinned, sags to rest face down upon the dust quilted wood.
I hear the wind blow against the liquid glass. A distraction. I could swear the pottery hare blinked back