The Old Dusty Album
At the back of the cupboard,
Lies a well-thumbed book,
Bulging with memories;
Silent stories
Of lives and loves past.
Sepia, grey and white faces
Look up at me
Through the generations.
Some, relaxed and smiling,
Others, proudly elegant
In their high collars, long skirts
And stiff suits.
Cars and motorbikes now vintage;
Towns with low buildings
And wide, empty streets.
Quiet picnics in fields
Now paved and bustling.
Reflections of history.
They took the photos
And recorded their memories.
Few names,
Few dates.
Breadcrumbs
On a path of discovery.
I turn the pages,
Trying to piece together the puzzle.
I meet my parents
As nonchalant teens.
And my grandparents
When they were still courting.
My great grandmother radiates
Calm poise,
Her hair piled intricately on her head.
At the back of my mind
Old memories return.
Stories at my Granny’s knee,
Faces and places emerge
Through the fog
Of my childhood memories.
From the back of the cupboard,
In an old, dusty book,
With pictures of lives long past;
I find once more
The childhood
I thought would always last.
Read more poems by Sharon Heaney Stansfield
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