Last days

the last days at baynton
were glowing with winter sun

I made sure we soaked it in:
we circled the paddock
climbed the big old fallen tree
the one we pretended was a sailing ship
or a steam train
or a secret hide-out

we surveyed the landscape
the familiar lines of home

the boots of my children
kicking the dust
around the dam’s edge

our ginger cat Pickles,
sleeping by the back door
(the last time we would see him)

the way the afternoon light
streamed on the laundry door
made the bricks warm to touch,
danced above the kitchen cupboards

the wind that rattled the roof at night
shook the tree tops
woke us in our beds

and now the strains of moving
are well behind us -
weary bones rested,

now that spring is here
and we smell flowers
and we feel air on our toes

those little waves of feeling
come, crash, fall away, go
over and again:

the house we used to know
the place we called home