The Antique Shop

 

 

                         Yesterday's memories,

                         Frozen into the permanent mass,

                         Scent of bayberry, mildewed,

                         Stale odors of mortality

                         Seen through the half opened door.

                         Black stockings and knickers

                         And the blacksmith shop,

                         Were the village clerk comes

                         From his high stool on a Sunday morning

                         (Please, mother, may I go out with Effie?).

                         A workbox of early Georgian vintage

                         (Yr. obedient servant)

                         The attendant lifts her in his arms,

                         The bed pans have been removed,

                         Dust settles for the final assault.

                         Outside the estate is waiting.

 

 

                                                           Jack Mashman