By Kathleen Holliday
Like a thatched cottage
on a windswept isle
this edifice too, will settle,
sink slowly, thistle-deep
Someday an archaeological intern
may smooth away the mossy earth
with soft brushes,
unearth the implements of this life:
empty Uniball pen barrels,
a shard of Blue Willow bowl,
spines of books articulating what was read,
soles of shoes stopped in their striding.
All of which may sprout academic theories
as to the circumstances of this
emigrant’s last look of home—
turfed out abruptly
by an implacable landlord?
a sudden withering blight?
or after a long, tumultuous voyage,
with sails luffing, going hull down
over the horizon, to find safe harbor
at last in the New World?
The stratum, if left alone long enough,
might be harvested in oblongs,
rolled and stacked against another house,
ready for laying down in a grate
in a room where voices sing,
fiddles and drums play,
to warm a cold night.
Copyright 2020 Holliday