Blue gas-rings burning in the darkened kitchen.
As figures move in doorways, shadows cross
Rectangles of light flung on lawns. Floors creak.
My mother reads in bed, spectacles on nose,
(A brief glimpse through some double glass-paned doors).
And on a couch, lights on, my father dozes,
Hands clasped, face baked with the red glaze of age,
Deeply inert features of fired porcelain.
My desk-lamp spotlights foliage, cricket songs wobble,
Air shifts through windows, barely perceptible,
And an autumn coolness prowls around the house.
This is a song of love for childhood’s house,
Galvanized roof crouched low beneath the night
Of bright stars flashing rapid messages,
Dim plankton of remoter galaxies,
Leaves of black glass and yellow juicy moons.
© Geoffrey Lehmann