Ridgehouse speaking

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.