This bench
This view
This favoured spot
Tattered Silk
Removing from the musty trunk,
Grey with dust and stale air billowing,
The wrapped fabric looks insignificant in my hands.
Once soft and glowing silk, shimmering
Sweeping as it moved.
Now dull, holed, torn in places
It lies limply with little of its former life.
Yet, listening in the quiet evening
There is still the faintest whisper
As if the memories could conjour up the music
Summon laughing ghosts
and catch the glimmering happiness,
Soft focussed enchantment on the slight breeze.
©J.Brain, 2010
