Mausoleum of Memory
Turn left into the sombre silence, and dead air:
The good room; laid out for a wake thirty years,
That, for the carpenter, has finally come.
A nod, a look, touching the wood, an exhaled sigh;
The fragrant corpse, the room itself, the fixed smile of both,
And a mausoleum of memory.
Flocked damp-patched patterned wallpaper,
A Sacred Heart benediction and three ducks migration;
Flying between the Johns, towards the Proclamation.
In the corner, his master’s voice, beside a cold fire,
Where polished bamboo struts, and chipped orphan ware,
Compete with porcelain hues.
And yet I remember, late night entry with Maura,
Fumbling fingers, wet with anticipation and innocence,
A cat-walk of shrieks and floorboard squeaks.
JFK and Pope John, and the carpenter, all gone now;
And memories of Maura fading too, leaving
Just the lovelorn ducks, ascending for eternity.
©R Derham 2014