Memoirs

I rode, one day, in summer
to the house where she was found.
The lawn was high from growing;
tall grass hushed me all around.

Windows, light and open,
bade my wary body in,
and that door (once black and solid)
graced my entry with its grin.

On the well-bleached floor,
still stains of blood sang red and proud,
stenches rank and pungent
forced my lungs to whinge aloud.

Where the log fire once warmed
was now a pit of fears,
as I walked about that friendly room
I could not dam my tears.

Once bright curtains – long and green –
would soak salt spies away.
Alas no grown-up hand
would draw drapes from my eyes today.

I sat for minutes,
hearing every creak and squeak and drip,
whilst in my head the flood of thoughts
got all my brain to rip!

So as my new blood mixed with hers,
all gushing through my nose,
my last thoughts were of how we change –
how quick dead memory grows.

I left so slow and choked up
that I found a memory then,
and though I try and halt it,
still flows freely – from this pen.

Broads House