Sunday, 4 April 2010
A recent photo of what was my Nana and Grandad's house until the late 1970s.
And a poem about the same house as I remember it.
This house should burst
like a pod spent with life, spill
all its remembered smells
of freshly-laundered sheets,
the mystery of the wobbly ins-
and-outs of the weather-house
man with umbrella, woman
with watering-can. The tin of Tang
above the sink. The macrame
-and-bead necklace draped across
the dressing-table mirror.
Grandad's Golden Kiwi ticket
pinned to the pin-cushion.
Nana's girdle scones with golden syrup.
The 2-in-1 oil-can and 'Show me the Way
To Go Home' ashtray.
But the house does not remember
the Postie on her bike delivering letters
through the window, the girl walking
her pet goat. Silly house. We are stopped
before you and you do not know
why. Do not even so much as wink
your windows as blank
as the eyes of a ghost's.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
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