The old house
The old house we left is still here,
Though it’s grown even greener.
I daren’t get too near
Lest its look gets any meaner.
I’ve no right now to be this close,
Peering over the high wall
Like a perv. But my nose,
When I’m on tip-toes, is that tall
So how could I hope to resist?
I don’t want to see their kids
Play where I did: their wrists
Skimming the same nettles mine did.
Do they dig up my broken toys?
I wonder. Wander away
With no answer. The noise
Of their woes, and their joys, delays
Me a while – that they coincide.
Brothers can be quite cruel things
To grow up with. Inside
Now, I wonder whose judgement brings
Their justice? I mean, his or hers?
“Ask your mum” or “Ask your dad.”
Ten years back we conversed:
These exact arguments were had
Between the same four limestone walls,
Stone sourced near. If they could talk,
They’d shout: “Heard it before!”
Crunching downhill, I hear my walk
Punctuate the droning of bees.
Fat ducks’ quacks bully bread from
Busfuls of OAPs.
To Flagstaff quarry: I succumb
To the soft thrumming of summer
And slumber where they quarried
My home. Here, high on the
Hill, over it all, I’m sorry
For a moment we ever left –
Waking warm, blinking bubbles,
Purse cursed. But here’s no theft.
And lying still will leave troubles.
Rhymes for all times