Monday, 7 October 2013

The Old Place

I park the car, walk back,
the house gone, torn down.
Trees are bare but
for a few flitting leaves.
The yard a carpet
of coloured fall compost
I can picture us there,
you, me and her
and the dogs always barking
out on the road.

Your mom's house still stands.
Tom and Ali's is gone.
The pastures grown in
with cedars and brambles.
Spook out a buck and two doe's
on my way to the pond
which is black and reflecting
the bare trees reaching
into the sky.

Down where the creek runs
cold in the shadows
I pick up a puffball,
feel the soft mellow texture,
smell the decay as
the earth claims itself.
Cedars are bare, more trees
than there's room for;
old twisted trunks,
cross my eyes to see through.
A coyote is watching like
he's wondering who
the hell I am.

I find the old pine,
three feet across.
No worse than it was
with large branch limbs broken,
rotted sockets like shoulders
that have bore too much weight
for too long.


  1. You paint a beautiful picture with words, beautiful storytelling.

  2. touching and nostalgic ...

  3. Lovely. Things are never as we remember them; can't go back home, they say.

  4. You know, this could actually be filmed, if someone had the eye for it. A nice short film.. it's really good !

  5. Thanks Sonalika. It is vivid in my minds eye.

  6. The imagery through the whole thing is fabulous but the last two lines really hit hard! Wonderful writing

  7. Ron, the entire poem is quite a picture. This image really struck me:
    "rotted sockets like shoulders
    that have bore too much weight
    for too long."

    Thank you.

  8. As a visual learner, I especially like the picture you've painted. Well done!