Pathway of Time

Through the clunky wooden gate

That marks the threshold.

Paint often seems to be peeling,

I know he tries.

But it's just too damp here,

I hear her say.

Lately there have been mushrooms

Growing out like wooden brackets

Bracing the hinges,

With contour lines

To mark each passing year.

In and out,

Swinging on hinges, on seats

Clicking of latches, of tongues

Once reaching up to open,

Library bag in hand,

Now down, to kick

And thrust a heaving suitcase

Through its beckoning space.

There are things I leave at that gate.

Tales of early morning encounters

Hedonistic nights

Lazy, smoke filled days.

I cross the border

And I cannot swear.

But there is so much I can say.

Great, moving stories

I wish to recount.

And I contemplate how much

Has changed

(In the weathering of the stone,

In the flaking of the paint,

In the plants I do not recognise)

And indeed, in me

As I make my way down the snaking path,

Each sandstone slab, cracked now

Winding the Verdigris

Clock hands back.

And I gaze upon that warming

Rust red clay of the bricks

That so many times

My skin brushed against and grazed

And that complementary sheen

Of green that surrounds each warped

And slightly iridescent pane.

It’s a different hue now,

Sage like the leaves I burn,

But reminiscent nonetheless

Of that timeless palette

I will always crave.

I plant my feet upon

The scratchy sisal mat

Upon ancient tiled geometry

Like it is written into my nature

And I know I am home

Delivered by the pathway of time.