There is a bust of an old man
kept in an alcove in the study,
only of passing interest to visitors,
barely worth the fuss of dusting.
If asked, a version of history
could be recited: he was a striking
figure and a prominent man — the first
in the family — in the community.
His rod-straight posture is remembered,
and the arrogance of having more
than enough and nothing to prove,
power, influence and a legacy.
Lost is the story of the man, a miserable
soul with a wish unfulfilled, unrecorded
are the nightly journeys where he would go
to the paths of youth to seek the sound
of her sweet song, aloft on the wind again.
For the Sunday Whirl
Shared at Poets United