The room is pitched on a shaft of light, Beating on the bare boards, And skewering the air About which they sit and breathe; Five souls in a room. Quietly filling the space between meals, With news, and remembering, And commenting, and agreeing. Quietly, as only family can do. Outside; clumps of pollen, Float on the wind toward the motorway. Catching on the grass, And the Dublin Bay Roses - “They must be cutting in the fields.” Another cup of tea, Another from the pot, Skinned with all the brews past; Every single one of them. —- Visits for remembering. For making memories new. For loving - as much as possible - Every new thing that can be loved. Five souls in a room, Counting the distance made, Together or apart; Weaved in the wind, Between them all. Smiling and loving together. Waiting out the days. Remembering.
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A quiet poem that contains so much. That first line sets the scene perfectly, brings me home to my Dad's kitchen. The skinned teapot has a cosy starkness to it, sure why would anyone scrub those past cuppas/history off. I feel all of this.
This is lovely work, David. This line especially: "Quietly, as only family can do." It well captures the quiet familiarity only those of close friends or intimate family can achieve!