Freshly waxed <br />The gleaming table <br />shone like a sun soaked lake. <br />Perfectly placed in the middle <br />of the table stood a multi <br />cracked vase, reminding me <br />of sun dried African planes. <br />It held nothing but a shallow <br />pool of fluffy dust. <br />The vase leans a little to <br />the left, father's fingers had <br />just started shaking back <br />then and it showed. <br />Looking down with a lonely <br />lurch a bookshelf lent us <br />its shadowed shade. <br />The bookshelf is how it has <br />always been- untouched <br />even by mother's intusive feather <br />duster. I always wondered why <br />Father had never shaken these <br />books from thier sleepy slumber <br />and read the secrets within. <br />I remember his reply- <br />to remove these books and <br />expose their contents would <br />be like.............. <br />he stopped, frowned and sighed. <br />looked at me, then the books, <br />the books then me, <br />and wandered into the garden.<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fathers-bookshelf/
