Soundlessly and unremarked settles
The winter evenfall.
The paddocks are grey with forgotten turf
Of the summer's past crops; and the gums,
Like ghosts, guard a graveyard.
Shhh! - hear the hollow shuffle
Of feet that used to tread.
Weary eyes ascend the hillside
Past rotting timber yards and twisted, rusting gate;
There a window frames the light - but pinched,
Grave, dim, uninviting.
Beyond the haunting chill, still stands
A reminder of walls and beams, once so grand.
In the gloom, that was once a home.
But ah, the noise we used to make:
Whooping, crying, laughing,
Radiance and life! No end
To the scents of warm bread
Toasting on the stove top,
Porridge laced with honey; and
Warm, creamy milk fresh from the morning Friesians.
Tramping footsteps drag in mud
From a good day's work;
A discarded coat upsets the British Blue mouser in his chair,
And the smell of poppy's foul pipe drives us out.
I perch on the verandah rail
In the fading twilight, and think
Of crops we would plant next spring.
A snatch of conversation wafts out:
"Get out of that jam!
It won't last forever you know."
Sadly I heed, too late,
The warning overheard.
The pallid turn of time,
Too intent, too uncaring
To pass us by.
The British Blue didn't come,
Ignoring the call of dinner and a soft lap.
We didn't think twice; until
Two days later
We pulled him out from behind the hay bales,
Stiff in the warmth of the barn.
Then, one by one, lad and lass made the pilgrimage
For somewhere warm to end their days -
And I remembered our British Blue.
Holding my breath, I wondered:
Am I also to go away?
*
See! The barn still stands
Somewhat; and the railing where I sat.
But how feeble are the attempts of humankind,
A feeble, reaching stock,
No match for unwavering time.
Yet still I follow my eyes
To the lightened window
(and the ghosts I'd once loved).
There I promise to join them
For one last time.
There I promise to continue the duty,
To uphold the memory,
The last of our line. |
Submission Name: Coming Home
