Hill Fog

I'm walking in the fog,
wet mist,
grey, in the trees.
This place I've seen so many times,
from my childhood.
This carved ex is mine.
This rock feels like mine,
this step,
and old ivy vine.

The whitewash house is closed,
locked and neat.
The last latch left,
the last smile,
and the new sign set.
For Sale, in the wind
that smells of peat,
and I pretend
it's not an end.

Here's to you dad, now with mum!
Now I'm the old man not the son.
My house is yours, as my wife cleans through,
and I shout at her sometimes, like you used to.
My street is warm in my children's mind,
and their feelings will one day mirror mine,
as I touch this ex for one last time,
and not feel sad,
as I say goodbye dad.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.