Looking back

Front door open, smiling a welcome,

Coconut vanilla beckoning to the kitchen,

A dining room whispering mealtime conversations

And years of algebra homework,

Solid oak table handing out wisdom across generations,

A heat-bleached spot where the brown enamel teapot stood,

Its warmth retained by a knitted tea cosy

Once colourful, now subdued by years of tea stains;

Deep green velvet curtains keeping the secrets inside.

Narrow steps leading down to an unforgiving stone floor,

Plaster peeling from basement walls

Revealing glimpses of a different texture beneath,

Cobwebs trapping youth, imprisoning freedom and opportunity,

The door tightly closed.

Up up to the bedrooms, each a private place of refuge,

Clean linen and candlewick bedspreads,

Open doors to childrens’ rooms with stars on the ceiling,

Lacy curtains allowing dreams to fly

Where make-belief and truth are one,

An adult room, a sensual rug,

And secrets kept in bedside drawers.

Black wooden stairs leading up

To attics of forgotten hopes and aspirations,

Windows uncovered, views of neatly hedged fields and ordered lives,

Another window, the town, sprawling, smokey,

Nebulous fantasies of success;

The door is closed.



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