To bring to a close my summer scribbles thoughts, I leave you with this poem, written a number of years ago in memory one of my favourite aunts;
I remember where the polished, walnut davenport
was placed against an ideal wall
between two sash windows open on the first floor
to Market street's feet-on-cobble bustle
of an awning bright shopping day.
espresso coffee aroma drifts upwards
from ice-cream parlour below into
cool, dark interior of a silent lounge.
So many words written here,
where wood and leather meet invitingly
and the rocking blotter sucks dry
lines of business and of pleasure.
Pristine paper set in readiness
for metal nib poised to dip.
I can see spider-writing
and your hand;
thoughts scribbled on your mind;
picture you from behind, hair soft, frail figure -
image of a maiden aunt busy penning fond, endearing
phrases, or setting immaculate figures in columned
ledgers. Creeping up on you
I run my small hand round the desk edge,
absorbing solid smoothness through my fingertips
and long to spider-write there too.
Now, the strong clawed feet of the davenport
stand here, letters fill a drawer
and the warm lustre of your presence
creeps up on me as I write.