coming home at Christmas

 

Years take us away, childhood

brings us back;

December mid-morning,

sun threatens to explode overhead,

walking up the winding road

to a house that was never my home

but is now theirs

I see the old man mowing –

the years I could gather

like seed

if I counted the times

I have seen the old man mowing

and on the porch old mum

waves a tea towel,

I have seen an ocean of tea towels waving,

all colours,

all fashions paraded through the ages.

 

Between the old man

and the old mum,

in the shimmering tar beneath the sun

I see shadow spaces, seven in all,

where once children ran and pushed, shouted and

cried at an injustice then laughed at a joke.

 

Where are all we now, broken

like rocks under the fury,

and yet

brought home by currents, sand

washed up

every Christmas at their shore.