In the wreckage of a house clearance,
a face distorts in a fractured glass eye.
Painted on gesso and northern white pine,
old acrylic eyelashes flash a recognition.
Stippled like a stormy summer,
worn and battered flanks shiver in the dust.
A torn rosette from a forgotten fete
hangs by a mane, shabby and faded.
Familiar sounds echo in the room:
the rhythmic squeak of tarnished swing irons,
the abandoned joy of a child’s laughter,
urging speed with giddying shrieks.
Memories locked in beautifully flawed wood,
as fingers trace words etched in brass,
re-joining a father’s name at the base of a gift,
sold and lost in the dying days of January;
the forty year provenance of a final project
documented in a set of saddlebag Polaroids.