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