Allegory

An old table stands in my study.
It used to grace my mother's drawing room,
A hand-me-down from Victorian days.
It looks its age, the varnish chipped, the inlaid roses fading,
Scuff marks on every edge,
Evidence of loving usage.

We could have it stripped down,
The old varnish removed,
Its surfaces sanded,
Its inlay repaired,
The scuffs and dents repaired
As once it used to be.

Then that old table would be as new,
Ready to stand another hundred years,
To take its place in another room, another home,
And some might come and say
'How lovely! How quaint! What charm!'
Admiring it's clean lines and uniform colour.

And perhaps it would look better
Perhaps it might feel a little sturdier
Perhaps it might even look as once it did
When it first left the carpenter's shop.
But it would not be my table.