Dust

Jane Dougherty Writes

Ноччу,_інтэр'ер_Жукоўскі

In the back of the drawer,

Amid old shopping lists and bits of string,

Memories flutter.

Once bright,

Faded now,

Into the sepia colour of the past.

Wind stirs the dust,

Eddies of tired happiness,

Gusts of dulled sorrows,

Memories moan and sigh,

In the too bright light.

I close the drawer gently,

While some lustre still remains,

And leave them to their rest.

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