Pim Claridge

Life in the Scottish Borders, one stanza at a time

Abbotsford — Tooled in Gold

I lit a candle for you today, at Abbotsford,
where the sun lay warm upon the walls
and roses spread richness on our afternoon.
In the library, the books glowed as
a shaft of light fell on titles, tooled in gold
by some forgotten, artistic hand.
The chairs are empty waiting still, for
the feel and stroke of friendly hands
along the polished, well worn wood.
And on the table, your green and white
looked freshly used, content.
In the gardens, beyond the yews
theres a seat, where dreams were dreamt,
to lie amongst the purples, blue and pink
and people all the nooks and crannies
in tall stone walls, hedged and
blanketed by fragrant, new-cut yew.
So quiet, so hushed, the silence so deep
I could hear your pen scratch,
and splutter over paper on the desk,
beyond the windows, beyond the grass
the river runs its everlasting course,
carrying your essence, your very soul,
between green banks, and pale-smooth stones.