Going Home

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

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