It doesn’t seem like trespassing – it was
Our own home once. Past the notice, ‘For Sale’,
In snow-camouflage, we creep through crackling frost
And reach the gate. My hand can read like Braille
The trick of the lock; I don’t now need to stretch
To reach the latch. Like timid giants, we stand
Where rhubarb grew, and there, the pit – we fetched
The pink-streaked stalks, played and shrieked in the sand.
Our apple trees are gone. The wind scythes through
The broken fence. The kitchen window shows
New units, walls a hideous green. A view
Of an abandoned life. Some late flakes blow
About our faces – our reflections, too,
Like living ghosts the house no longer knows.
Elaine Ewart, January 2011
Published in Friction, the journal of the Newcastle Centre of the Literary Arts, February 2012
Flight Feather 