As moving day approached us,
And packing boxes grew,
Small things set off a memory,
Recalled old times anew.
We’d lived there thirty-seven years,
And stockpiled year on year.
When clearing out the attic space,
Lost things would re-appear.
Reminding us of little things,
That made us laugh – or cry.
Of how our life within those walls,
Had changed as years went by.
I saw an unimportant thing,
Which made me stop and look.
For each piece had some history,
Each plate, each toy, each book.
Those happy, proud occasions,
The crises and the joy.
Were all recorded in those things,
Each plate, each book, each toy.
Each object had its place in life,
To which I could relate.
They gave me time to reminisce,
Each book, each toy, each plate.
Yet as the moving day drew near,
My thoughts were not of plates,
But people who had blessed my life –
Good neighbours, friends, best mates.
It’s they that I will miss the most,
And not the things we bought,
For they were loving, helping, kind,
Good humoured, gave support.
To each of them I give my thanks –
All friendship is enchanted,
A magic gift we all can share,
But oft times take for granted.