The Gables (Rathgar. Dublin).
In the ruins of my once-great-mind (ha ha)
That Inca Temple of my Andes..now sub-siding ..
Some memories limp out in misery like the sick in rags
Some roar like raging beasts and will not go away.
Others tip toe silently along the misty cobble streets
Of yesterday .
I remember marbles , knucklebones and hoola hoops
Grass snakes and lemon trees..the broken shells of clams
Cities , ships and post war Amsterdam...and then..
The Gables...Arts and Crafts.
For me..
The house that does not go away.
And Grandma.. standing by the fountain
A young girl that day.
Parts of that old house now rest in mine
The Urn the candlesticks.. the chair.. the desk..
And when I look at them
Their past returns... barely tangible...
Mind games of time....tricks of the heart ...
Mysterious and moony was that wistful sitting-room
Where pensive curtains draped onto the floor
A widow, thin of bone and speech
Wore black...
... her long ethereal cheeks hung
Like flash-hoods of her soundless grief.
Her name was Auntie Frank
And in that sombre chair she smiled
The weak smile of a dying heart.
To climb the wooden stairs that creaked up to
Gaunt empty rooms where Aunt Frank slept
A consumated Christian , of Godly flesh
She lay in linen sheets..alone in bed
White roses in a vase.
Flashbacks and recollections are dead-eye memories
They pace about our thoughts ..mugging the past
..devouring us until they drop
Gathering like fallen moths with dusty wings
Upon those mindful Gable’s floors
Which are no more ..that house is gone
The people are all dead ..the garden isn’t there.
The Urn , the table , the candlesticks, and chair
Are..survivors of a past..and of
The house that was but is no more
The house of Auntie Frank.
Kristine Byrne Oct 2013
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