Cling it did like the old misty mildew
long forgotten by time
sleek and cold across the ceiling.
Glistened the fine gossamer
waltzing figures spun from the dew
glint and swirl as though music played
silently, for none but them.
Resting dust hugged the vintage wood
like long lost lovers united
all consuming, all immediate
as though years apart were torture of sorts.
And outside, the garden grew
wild as if the days ahead were short
soaking all the sun, all the rain.
But none saw the ragged doll beneath tall weeds
an arm torn from its socket,
eyes fixed to the promising sky
perhaps she would today see a familiar face…
the child who left in a hurry,
dragged by the arm, her cries unheard.
‘My dolly! My dolly!’ …and shoved into a beaten old tin box.
The exhaust spewing dirty.