Poetry

The Rusty Window

Against the bright pink walls
Facing outside,
Through the wooden framed window
With the polished iron border
I would wait, twinkling eyes
Looking out to him

Who would run home,
His tiny satchel in his tiny hand
And the smiling face
My feelings only she could understand
Who ,like me, has waited through the day

Today, I stand again
Memories present the theatre
To my twinkling eyes
Fresh memories,which settle as morning dew on my cheeks

I would hold a grudge against time
For it ran past me
While I was lost in his naive smile
He, who was then mine

Against the dull pink walls
I stand again, watching through
The foggy glass and through
The rusty window
With hope like that of a child
That Someday in many years
The urge of my heart, he will listen
And will have the same smile,
The day he returns
I’ll see him through the window
Like a gift of my patience
And till then i stay, and see
with the moistness of sweet stories on my cheeks ,

Iย let the memories play a theatre for me

~Pramegha

57 thoughts on “The Rusty Window”

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          Like

  1. I love your words and the story, the loss, they hint at.
    I read it as the small loving (well-loved) son who grows up, gets married, leaves home and after time forgets his mum.
    I would yearn too, oh so very much.
    Anna :o]

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Beautiful, poignant in the best sense, Jane. I felt the pathos, the longing and the wait. My son, once so young and pliant….now in the distance and forgets his mum. A universal sadness as I read this poem. pulls at the heat honestly.

    Liked by 1 person

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