All those times when (I) kept thoughts
to myself, not wishing to stir up…
to stir up…
because (you) kept your heart buried
deep within the folds of your tweed jacket
whilst wearing it
loud, pulsating, on your sleeve
Why did (we) not spill?
I must pay closer attention to d’Schedule! I do enjoy a Quadrille (and this is only the seond one I have written), and last night was Quadrille night over at dVerse. Still, it’s not too late to enter because Mr Linky is still in evidence 🙂
Here’s my entry. This week, we are invited to use the word ‘spill’, and I have written about the lengths we often go to, to protect other’s feelings, or to avoid dealing with things that are uncomfortable, or painful. When it’s too late, believe me, you regret not opening your mouth and letting the words out.
Please do head on over to the wonderful dVerse poets’ pub, rest awhile and read – or write!
Not To Be Reproduced, 1937, Rene Magritte
Christophe folded his clothes, laying them out on his bed before placing them in his suitcase, precisely and methodically. So it had ever been.
He did not need to turn from his to task for the exact layout of the room to be available to his memory. Burnished mahogany armoire to his left, ornate chest of drawers in the recess next to the fireplace and elegant sash windows to his right. The deep sash windows, each lower pane lifted precisely six inches to allow a healthy breeze to refresh the stale air, were dressed in elegant plum brocade curtains.
Nothing had changed since he had left all those years ago.
“Monsieur?” His manservant stood in the doorway, hands open in enquiry.
“Oui, Gaston. I am ready.” Christophe snapped shut his case, locked it and pocketed the key.
“Will we be returning… after, monsieur?”
“Non, Gaston. I am here to do my filial duty, that is all. We will leave as soon as the service is complete and the mourners have left. They expect nothing more, nothing less.” Christophe stared at Gaston, daring him to comment.
Gaston said nothing.
The father and son had not spoken in twenty five years, and now Monsieur Clement the elder was dead.
If they had anything to say to each other, it was too late now.
Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. I have been fascinated with Magritte’s art since discovering him as a teenager – my step-Dad has a book of his art on the bookshelves at home. ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ was my favourite, partly because of the play on words. This story is certainly not reflective of my relationship with my step-Dad, thank goodness! I thought there was something mournful about this painting, hence the tone of my piece.
I hope you enjoyed this, do let me know what you think.