After my grandma's death, some thirty years ago, I never set foot in her house again. Over time, all memory of childhood became shuttered there; it was, for a long time, too painful to visit, even in my imagination. The poem speaks of the deep loss I experienced and my exile from the comfort, safety and sanctuary of the familiar and her love for me.
546 Warrington Road
Like day old snowfall
after a hoar-frost
the old
cinder path
has a satisfying crunch
underfoot
ghost steps
await
my return.
Soot-blackened
sandstone walls
stand sentry
over the stilled garden
the weeping ash tree
makes
no sound,
the piano
is mute.
No steam billows
from the tiny kitchen
laden with the scent
of over-boiled
potatoes
and cabbage.
In the living room
the rows
of red geraniums
are
more forthcoming
as I pinch the
soft
bristled
leaves -
Their pungent smell
rewards me –
bringing a sharp
longing for tea
in a
mis-matched
bone
china
cup
and sweet,
runny rice pudding,
made with evap
not cream,
scooped from beneath
the nutmeg skin.
Siobhan Cawson-Mooney is our current Poet-in-Residence. Every now and then we find a voice that sings to us. Those voices that show us something new - voices from out there that somehow resonate deeply. Voices we just 'get'. When that happens we graciously ask that they join us for a time. To live and dream along with us.
The artwork for this poem is by Stacey Blythe.
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