The homestead

The Homestead


The door used to be sky blue, my father painted it
so because mother loved that colour; mind now it’s
cracked, weather bitten and pale as dead wood.
The door to the cabin, where I was born, used to be
Big and imposing it took years before I could reach
its handle, now I had to bend down to touch it.

My derelict legacy, not been here for years; as I
opened the door, air bothered the silence, a storm
of memories spun dust about, closed my eyes, had
a dizzy spell, and opened shutters to let daylight in.
I came here because I’m old and need something
that makes sense on my voyage across the oceans.