A Room Of Rainbows
French doors open onto rainbows in the late afternoon,
crystals hanging at a leadlight window. The mantelpiece
is cluttered, the collection eclectic, antique glass vases
rub shoulders with a tiny birds’ nest, a sweet gift
from child; a mosaic by another. An onyx swan from
another. A small Wedgewood plaque, (this from my
mother-in-law) exquisite Pegasus and goddesses
delicately chiselled in white onto blue. On the walls
art and a stopped clock, kept for its colourful appeal
rather than my necessary reminder of time. Time falls
away here in my sanctuary.
Familiar faces on the wall; a scattering of small tables
around the room, each with a cargo of books. Hidden
behind a chair, a basket of embroideries, works in progress.
Squeezed there also canisters of CDs, discs and tapes
of anything from opera to country music. And at certain
times of the day the cat will be lolling on the carpet, or up
on rugged chairs, avoiding that expensive leather cushion: (whew!
so thankful for that.)
If you feel an aura in the room, I call it love. Sorrow has had
its moments here though more often the everyday comings
and goings I cannot take for granted, a life worked hard for.
Take a seat, delve into the bookcase as autumn begins. I’ll
be sitting here taking up my embroidery recalling nights
of love making on the rug before the cosy fire. And the dirty
little secret, again hidden behind another chair, is a box filled
with magazines I continue to finger through wasting yet
Benita H. Kape © 13.4.2015
All Cretans are liars should be the title of this poem. I’ve never actually had the pleasure of making love on this particular carpet which I can’t quite add into the poem. Don’t want to spoil it.