written by: Elly Smith
Memory path leads us over
moss tufted slabs of grey granite
slippery in the dew.
Where my mother stepped
in white wedding shoes.
Under an archway of tangled roses
strangled by threads of bindweed.
Where my grandfather scratched his
hands, pruning and taming.
At the end, the house, shimmers,
marking the years, until life begins again.
Porch door creaks, geranium petals fall.
There is a carved bed in a room,
in the house, still there. Waiting.
There is a fire, glowing gold.
Hiding in the oven, a salt pot
Brown, eathern-ware cracked,
warm still, ready, for us to arrive.
But we never return.
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