Coming back to a familiar you,
Playing the songs that were yesterday.
You wrapped me up in what I knew,
In all the words you would not say.
Your house is full of pictures and books;
Silent interruptions every time I saw
That warm heart changed to pointed looks,
Remembered times from so long before.
They say that time heals the wound,
Inside, reconciled to who you are,
Our shared memories entombed.
I’ll love you all the same, near and far
.
© Christopher
The poem was written last year. It’s an old picture of mine. It is the imagined one-room cottage with a latch door – no key, the place that our mother and us two boys lived for the first four years of our lives in Cornwall.
Damp walls, a portable Aladdin paraffin heater to warm ourselves, paraffin lamps for night time, Calor gas for cooking, one cold water tap, outside loo, a single light switch with one light, no electric plugs, and a balcony on which we all slept.
Our mother sometimes worked in a local petrol station to make ends meet, and later became a teacher.
I still have a photograph of us sitting in the tin bath outside, being washed.
The cottage was on a lane below the farmhouse, near a ford over a stream. It was situated halfway between Penzance and St. Ives.
.
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Wow, thank you for both the poem and for the story behind it.
Comment by Sarah Cunnington on 8 September, 2024 at 8:11 amWhat a beautifully crafted poem – poignant with bittersweet nostalgia and wonderful imagery. A joy to read.
Comment by emma lumsden on 13 September, 2024 at 5:37 pm