Where had the time gone?
He hadn’t lost it down the side of the sofa,
joining the plethora of other
pound coins which had been hiding there.
He hadn’t accidentally thrown it away
like that pair of football boots
all those years ago.
He hadn’t done either of those things
yet he still couldn’t understand
where it had gone.
Most would stop looking,
given up the search
and rightly so,
no one had ever found it again,
or not that he’d heard of.
Although
something inside of him didn’t like the idea
of giving up.
It seemed wrong.
even if it was the common route.
He looked at his watch
as if though it would speak back to him.
He thought himself silly,
the quiet ticking the only reply
he was expecting.
The room had an eeriness to it,
the objects around him becoming blurrier by the
second.
They had lost meaning.
He couldn’t recognise any of them,
suddenly feeling like a stranger in his own house.
He felt like he belonged less
than they did.
The objects sat there on their shelves,
contempt with the days passing by
with no sign of aging.
No change from the moment they were placed there.
Then he glanced at something that
he did recognise.
An old friend.
The aloe vera growing on the windowsill.
It had seen better days
and could have done with some watering.
The only other thing in this room that been neglected
and had the signs to prove it,
Green and dismayed like an old person
staring out the window of a retirement home,
longing for a change in their monotonous routine
of tablets and bingo.
Obviously, the plant could not play such games,
but if did,
it would have definitely been
a snakes and ladders fan.
The plant was closer to the human
currently observing them,
than the porcelain dog that had not sniffed once
since it had sat on that bookcase.
Which by nature,
made it very un-dog-like.
It was thanks to time that the human
had once again
taken a liking to the aloe vera perched on the windowsill.
Forgetting all about the fact that he was lost,
he filled a glass of water,
gently pouring it onto
the very thirsty friend of his.
I’d been walking up the muddy track for a while, beautiful vistas here and there coupled with a big drop off just metres next to me. Most things in life had that balance Between beauty and death. Up further along I had spotted A wooden thing Just stood there. It didn’t belong there Or at least not In a natural sense of the term. Unlike the flowers and trees that existed around it That for-one-reason-or-another, chose that particular spot to live out the rest of its life, this, had had no choice of its own. I mean how could it? An inanimate object as such, I can’t even say it chose to look the way it did. No, That was up to the designer or in this case, the wood worker.
I was closer to it now the distance between it and I a matter of centimetres. A door. It was a door. A nice door at that, one that had patinaed and aged through its intended use. Unfortunately for this door, It had lost one key feature. Either, through the perils of time or the uncanny strength of one individual. Nevertheless, this door was undoubtedly missing a handle. In its place, a chain. A door, chained shut. Which as uninviting as that may seem, had a certain warmth about it. Like an old friend or relative. Maybe that was due to the backdrop, a cacophony of plants and branches that completely changed my perception of this piece of wood. If anything, this large piece of wood was cousins with the trees that grew beside it. The stone parked at the bottom of the door also did not add to the overall welcoming nature of this inanimate object. Yet again, it still filled me with warmth.
I’d have loved to have met the owner. Not of the ground that lay behind the entrance, but to the opening itself. Of course, I would have asked him politely, Not knowing the nature of the man who owned this door. Although the chains and rock had suggested he wasn’t a friendly man, or that perhaps he was and that he was keeping those who were not so friendly, Out. Like most of us who live day-to-day, we can often feel misplaced. But when we do, we will often do something about it. On the other hand, this door, which in one way, can only be described as misplaced, simply must stand there, in its awkwardness and all. Unlikely to be opened, used, touched, man-handled. So if ever you are feeling Misplaced. Whether that be in a literal or metaphorical sense. Just be glad, you’re not this door.
wear shoes, write poems 