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The Room


Rusty Broadspear

A magnificent mahogany dining table,

Highly polished, unblemished and laid bare,

Centred a room of such grandeur,

That one would stand and stare.

The east wall was one of windows

Through which swords of dying sunlight,

Strobed bookshelves and works of art.

So tranquil and unmoving, despite

An air of recently departed guests.

A mammoth fireplace, made, but not lit,

Dominated the far end of the room.

In front of which a stone coffee table

Held a carafe of port - I assume,

Alongside two half empty goblets.

A blend of perfume and cigars drifted unseen

Two chairs awaited future occupants

Where two others had recently been.

The spectacular view from the windows,

A bronze cherub fountain in full spray.

Ornamental grounds stretched for miles,

Preparing for sleep at the finale of day.

A crystal chandelier above the table

Tinkled in the softest of evening breeze.

I pictured past banquets of family fayre

And laughter with clotted cream teas.

Green velvet curtains framed the windows.

A tapestry hung above the door,

Woven with strange words in silver thread.

Emotions crept in of what I'm not sure.

I left the room as I had found it, feeling

I had trodden on sacrosanct ground.

Like I had discovered something yet nothing,

Outside understanding, unfathomable, yet profound.

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