Teatime is Memory

by cagd

Drusilla and Miss Edith holding tea in the ruins of the house she was born in.

Drusilla plays
In the fragile remains
Of the house
That once held her life,
Father, mother,
Sisters, servants-
As spiders dance
Upon gossamer strands.

It's lovely to be here
All by oneself,
The blade of prophecy
Blunted and fading,
The whims of others
No longer shaping
Her jangling dreams
As their own.

She's the last one
All by herself,
A child left behind-
In the house
That once held
Her life-
As spiders dance
Upon gossamer strands.

Miss Edith,
Though silent
Likes it here too,
Where the windows
Are broken,
Birds make their nests,
And the mice
Roam at will.

Others have lived
In this empty place
Since that fairy-tale time;
Plaster has fallen,
And rubbish rests heavy,
Where once there was order-
As spiders dance
Upon gossamer strands.

In the bones of the parlor
Moonlight streams in
Through empty blind windows
Torn wallpaper mingles
With old carpet remains-
Teatime is memory,
Plumcakes and butter
Wedgewood and Spode;
Frail as the wings of a moth.

Miss Edith sits quietly
Beside her Drusilla
A broken watering can
Holds a dark tea
Of rainwater and rust,
Their plates made of air-
As spiders dance
Upon gossamer strands.

She's all that remains
Of two families
Swept away
By the river of time;
Washing up
In the house
That once held
Her life.

Happy at last,
Dru sings to herself-
Sharing sweet cakes
Made of mud,
Rat turds and leaves
With both of her families-
As spiders dance
Upon gossamer strands.