On cold winter nights like these

When silhouetted flames of orange and red 

flicker and sway upon the walls 

of a darkened room

The past can find its way back

Seeping out of cracks, long-since filled

Through floorboards, long-since replaced

Soft and hushed, 

ingrained in the periphery

The flames luring memories from shadows 

to join in perfect ambience

 

As the wine glass tilts in my hand

For a moment I see not my room at all,

but an echo of what once was:

High ceilings framed with beautifully elaborate coving

The fireplace, now huge and ornate

Logs crackling, embers drifting

I feel the warmth, and soft caress 

of generations tragically forgotten

 

The whisper of a little girl

runs through the memory of a doorway 

She giggles. 

I only catch a glimpse

But, I know she's gone to hide

In a room that no longer exists

In a time long-since past

'I can't come find you,' I startle myself by saying...

And find my own room returned

My eyes somehow sodden 

My wine spilling

I jump up to fetch a cloth 

and, hopefully, dab away

the melanoma upon the rug...

 

But, I take a moment,

a breath to clear my head

I look to the wall

where once a doorway

led to a hiding place

 

'Perhaps one day, I'll find you,' I whisper 

 

One day, when I'm in the periphery myself

Conjured by the dancing flames

In this darkened room

 

On a cold, winter's night, such as this.

 

 

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The Motion of Pictures