WHAT A MESS
The whole place was a shambles,
        things lying everywhere
Dirty dishes piled high and a musty
        smell in the cool air.
There was a clear path from the sofa
        to the kitchen sink,
All the rest was clutter, as you looked
        you would really think
Of some old curiosity shop described
        in Dickens good books,
There buried in a corner was an elderly man
        with rather a funny look.
“Come in” he called, threw things from an
        old comfortable chair,
Gave a nod that I should come forward and
        sit down in front of him there.
His eyes danced like moonbeams on a
        deep blue lake,
The shamble all around an incongruent
        statement did make,
This man so alive, his talk scintillating, what
        he knew took my breath away.
He told stories of places he had been
        and where he used to stay,
Adventures of the north, no one close by,
        no one to call him friend.
But he collected a trophy to help him
        remember things,
And what to others was shambles and mess
        to him memories bring
I washed his dishes, as we talked, I soaked up
        all the things he told me.
So once a week I wander into the shambled mess
        to hear many tales told free
By a scintillating person who has an active mind
        full of buried treasure,
Watch his eyes dance, hear his voice sing with life
        and be fed in good measure.

(Millicent) Ann Margetson October 1, 2002