Through the Splintered Door
I peer through childhood’s splintered door
And see the world that was before,
Caught in a well-worn photograph
From nineteen hundred sixty-four--
A boy, a farm, a family,
A lot of old machinery,
And everyone oblivious
To everything that was to be.
The out-of-focus boy is me,
Sulking on the periphery,
But what he saw when staring back
Is now beyond recovery,
Since I can’t pour back through that door
Or bore to recollection’s core
And be that jug-eared boy again,
Awaiting all that was in store--
Time runs downhill, pools on the floor,
Slips down the drain, and leaves no more
Of everything that used to be
Than a loose silt of memory.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, David
Stephenson would be pleased to hear them.