Small Treasures
I stare at the door
With its panels painted pristine white
Where the handle will not feel the pressure of your fingers
Tell myself you will never open it wide
Walk out at a measured pace
Intend on your mind’s purposeful stride
Through the white panel door from inside
The silence
Invites me in to admire your treasures
Gathered over time and stored in the place
You called your space
These are not national treasure
To be kept under lock and key
They have no real monetary value
They were there for you to touch and see
Their worth in the memories they evoked in you:
A small faded soft leather first shoe of your first son
The leather still blue but stiff to the exposure of years
A man with a son of his own now
You treasured it still
A small rectangular tin that once
Held your Uncle Toms hand rolled tobacco
The pungent smell of Virginia Cut smothered
By the postage stamps you keep there now.
Shoe laces some brown some white
In case of necessity
And pens of all kinds collected from charity shops
Emblazed with names anxious for your trade
Others proffered by bank tellers who understood your penchant
Gifts of fine stylish writing instruments in slim stylish cases
An unused shoe polishing kit an impulsive buy with little use
A thing that might come in useful sometime
Little treasures
Taken out used replaced and admired
Wait, in gloomy quietness in a drawer
Behind the white panelled door
Gemma Hill 2021©
Gemma Hill Writeyou Writeme 