I Favour the Works of the Past
The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
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