Going Home

The ancient farmhouse stands lone on the hill
Burnt umber and ochre
Under a windswept slate-grey sky,
High on the moors where, if you listen carefully,
You can still hear Heathcliffe howl his lament
To all and sundry
And anyone who will listen,
His audience today, a scraggly tree,
The rugged sheep, the cold stone wall, and me.
Old boundaries mark the borders of property and field.
But no one cares much now,
The land too barren to support much
Except the sheep, of course, who eye me,
Black-eyed intense curiosity with a permanent
Munching and grinding,
As I approach.

The grey wall almost camouflaged against the sky,
An age-old gate more rust than metal
Whines its disapproval as I enter.
Everything in this dead place is alive.
I can feel the empty windows watching,
The overlong grass whispering,
And the sheep are gathered and gossiping
Behind my back,
As I approach.

The door was once strong, secure,
A barrier against wind and uninvited guest
But longtime rot provides a skeleton key
For me to enter, the handle fallen,
The lock protection now barren,
So I go on in
Tiptoe-caution into pin-drop silence.

It seems an age, or two,
Since I last was here.
The air is old, stale
And a thin veneer of dust would shift
Uneasily, random, if I were to inhale.
The damp has set the walls to peel
But no visitors notice,
And I don't mind much any more.
Treading in noiseless ascent
I gain the upper landing
Searching, remembering; it has been so long.
One picture keeps returning...
We were so young, then, your hair
Was long golden sunbeams flowing behind
As we ran, hands held across the field
I recall,
I tripped,
Fell
Pulling you down on me...


We were young then,
But many the times since I have
Replayed that scene.

I always used to watch from my bedroom window
When I knew you were coming,
With the smell of mother's fresh baked bread
Exhaling from the kitchen
Sweetly contaminating the house.
She always baked two, one large, one small;
The small we picked at hot from the oven,
As she buttered the second into doorsteps
With jam and fresh cream for tea.
Our eyes would meet, sparkle secrets,
And sometime later
You would share the house with me.

I turn right, to the master bedroom
That we shared, that shared our ups and downs.
I don't knock,
But push the door further ajar.
The cloud breaks, momentarily,
And a stray ray of autumn sun
Turns the dust motes to fireflies
And rests on the chestnut face of
The woman that lies there.
You are as beautiful as you ever were,
Though the features more lined,
The hair slightly whiter,
A thin rivulet of silver tear scoring your cheek,
And the hands clasped desperately tight
Around a photograph of two people,
Me when I was old, and a woman
Who was younger than she is now.
As I enter, you turn your head and see me
And a smile breaks your face
Into a thousand happy pieces
And you speak one line
I knew you'd come
Then you close your eyes for the last.

I walk over and place my hands on yours.
Bending close, I kiss your forehead.
Yes, I came.
I came to show you the way.
I came to take you home.