Homecoming

by Anna Macfie

When nothing is left, memory returns
and what you have been waiting for
is turned to, like an old dog on a path
half-acknowledged, unerring -
there does not have to be wood-smoke
or  Mistle-thrush song
there is only the indefinable interior silence
that comes with stillness and rest
a stream running in the background
leafless trees lining the way
a scent of leaf-mould seeping into the earth
cloven prints in the mud
A grey tin roof seen through branches                                                                                             
unadorned, a metal latch lifting shadow
to daylight; cleanly lit rough boards
and a faint smell of tar -
the window frame corner stuck with chitin
moths’ wings dropped by bats,
frost on the grass