We must disregard old favourites, learn to forget
the past. It is usually found where there is not
too much direct sunlight, a sudden picture that
was hidden but is still included. No-one was able
to write down things exactly as they happened
but images are preserved with amazing sharpness.
We are surprised by the apparition, the sound
of a wind-up toy in motion, the bustle of mind
in the mouth. It is a time for our words to dance
and our bodies to celebrate spring, time to convince
the children they don’t really miss their last home.
We concentrate on the positive: larger garden, safe
places to cycle, their treehouse, how near the village
is to the creek. Some days we canoe in the rain,
disturbing herons and geese, but when the sun shines
we paddle along to the pub and think how lucky we are.
There is nothing unexpected about these events, except
that they are new, and almost justify moving. What is
the point of this small landscape we have adopted
unless we can call it home? It is a different space
to the city, with different meanings for words like
distance and proximity. This is the pub, that is
the church, and there is the village hall. The shop
is a mile in that direction, if you want to moor
your boat here talk to Pete. It’s nice in the bar
when the tourists go home, though it’s their meals
that fund our quiet drinks. Whatever point of access
takes the mood or imagination, there are only
two roads in, the lane with passing places out.
A chasm has been opened and this is where
I want my poem to go, rowing across the sky
of water at high tide. We cannot ever go back
through the red door. It is no longer our house,
we would not recognize it as even the same world.