MAUSOLEUM OF MEMORY

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