A House at the Edge of a Forest
A house at the edge of a forest
On a curve at the end of a track
Trees behind stand in legion
Ready to predict ill-wind.
An early memory
The shape of trees,
A cloak of them perhaps,
Dark and heavy.
And cherries on the branch.
A fragment, a thing uncertain.
A confusing, hazy dream,
Alive now
As it had once been real.
Folk, terracotta and white
The magic and beauty suspended.
We bang on the door and receive no answer.
The trees remember, the wind too.
But the voices of the dead cannot reach us.
Nor time invite us in.
Love could not keep all the pieces together.
There was no lock or box, nor bind or seal.
To keep it all safe and in one place.
The house presided over each parting.
Casting a long, lonely shadow
To a curve at the end of the track
At the edge of the forest.
Never to mark their return.
By Robyn Hunt (c) 2024
Nová Ves v Horách, Czech Republic
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