Melancholic Motes

Drawn to his whistling we’d skip along that path, Locked onto the shed’s old wireless; tinny and taught with his tune, Dust waiting for our arrival by the door, yet Now you wouldn’t even know it was there. The path, long ago an entry point of dreams, no longer leads, but Follows memories gathering dust with neglect now Overgrown with the passage of time. As children we would follow that path Holding our pop’s crooked hand, a sticky bun in the other Trying to count the countless bricks, to the end To the start of grandpa’s ole wooden shed, the door ajar, Allowing memories; old and new, to come and go as they please. For amongst the wooden toys and tools and junk that clung to shelves, Amidst the scent of thinners and birch shavings and oldness There lived here once in our childhood – these happier simpler times. Now I stand near the end of adulthood, peering in the window My reflection recoiling at its image, flinching at the emptiness, the Dusty hollowness that hangs there, - though I imagine the laughter, and see our useful little hands Hammering in time with the wireless, our Hair and clothes powdered with the dust Gathered on the filaments of tales past and present. Those memories now lay in the dust, like Echoes clinging to a voice, all The shelves so full of everything, yet they are nothing now - Gathering dust Like his stories; buried amongst the particles, that I now tread upon softly, not wanting the moment to dissolve Into melancholic motes, as I close my eyes in search of a child, Hidden in the dusty recesses of my mind. John Lawless’s poetry contest – ‘Gathering Dust’ 28 Feb. 15