Ridgehouse
‘Hello, It’s me…’
I’m still here
standing these
years,
grandparent to
the 11 children,
who grew with me,
and George
whose hands crafted
and sanded, stroked my
curves,
molded me.
“mother” who scrubbed
me clean of small
brown fingers, washed
my floors and
fell to her knees
11 times as blood
and baby
dropped into my legs.
Their collective hair
adorns my walls,
sheets and toys,
shoes passed down
from one pair feet
to another.
Biscuits, bread, once
baked in my hearth,
now outlawed by
fire chief who walked
through last Spring.
Lavender, sage hang
by my heart.
cloves in oranges
scent my lungs.
I once knew
Song, and
voices raised in laughter,
prayer
debate.
Neighbours leaned
in close
against my railings.
Coal brought in by horses
and dumped
down upon my
root
of thyme
now gone.
Stay with
me; remember
who I once
held, my
town of
ridges.
