The Telephone

silhouetted against the vast farmland, western Sun set put up a painter’s dream, it lit the place up like house on the strand, stillness of silence and the flowing stream! inherited it from my great grand dad, was history rolling on a grand scale, antiques, tapestry, gothic arts it had, handed from generations, not for sale. on the mantle at the humming furnace, a telephone of antique perfection, bejewelled, stylish, decorated face, the cable was old without connection. one day at dinner under candle light, we heard a stir in the far living room, our old phone was ringing, wide eyes in fright, we walked slowly to it, fear and gloom! with trembling hands I picked the phone up heard voices exchanging romantic thoughts, wondered if it was a prank or set up, but knew they were voices that time forgot! the telephone now rings from time to time, I pick up to hear lovers say their hearts, whispers and sobs, from victims of some crime, hate, jealousy that had torn them apart! I now do not pick the phone up no more, let it ring and ring for ever some nights, they break my heart those two lovers of yore, they both are long gone, but their pain still bites!