Out of Place

Sunday morning. I'd several hours to spare

before my flight. The hire-car's tank was full

and roads were half-empty. So I made a detour, 

compelled by some inscrutable push and pull



of going on but likewise going back.

I circled twice around the old estate,

estranged, confused to feel the years of lack;

I passed our shrunken house and bolted gate.



I parked the car behind the sleeping house;

got out to birdsong, wind and sighing trees

amid a quiet emptiness. Just a house

and just a door reviving countless memories:



a place to come and juggle joy with grief

and seek familiarities. I was Rip Van Winkle

un-gumming eyes, surprised and blinking

away the years, unnerved with disbelief.



So I'm the stranger now pulled up outside -

though no one chinks the blinds to see who's there;

and all the blinds are closed like someone's died.

It's time to go - but still I stop and stare.