This Table Handed Down by liarbird I was staring at the wood grain, and the age shown by each ring. It could have been an old oak. Could have been anything! The stains have gone un-noticed, they’re indelible old grime from coffee, wine and laughter, in conversations back in time. We gather here at mealtime, or when old friends call in. Talk about good fortunes, or when hard times did begin, there is grief for a passing. Celebrate a birth or someone’s age. A place to find some reason, if disagreements rage. When the family Bible’s open, written words are hard to see. Faded are the births and deaths that form our family tree. Dated back in Scotland, sixteen ninety’s first official entry. Transported on a sailing ship, early in the nineteenth century. Named is the ancestor migratory aboard the sailing ship, who bought antiques out from Scotland, on a six-month seaboard trip. Settled in the Western District, built this house on freehold land. Each generation opens up the Bible, when need of a writers hand. Entrenched and well remembered, is the history of my clan, there are so many stories. Some too harsh to understand. We know of Mothers in distress; who shed tears before, they fed their sons for one last time, before they left for war. Private and talked in whispers, are the black sheep’s swelling bud, where some had planned extortion, and talked of shedding blood, but the gaiety is mentioned too, in what is party mood, there was singing and much banter, drink and ample food. As I stare down at the wood grain, as holder of the antiques now, declaring that no matter what, I in no secret make this vow, my family ties are still so strong, our Bible steeped in tight renown. A writer’s hand shall pen my death, upon this table handed down. Added to GotPoetry.com ( http://www.gotpoetry.com ) on 21-Oct-2009