It seems there are always floors to walk upon Brown and cool Stretching wall to wall to wall From hallowed to concrete hall From Temple to Church From Park to Station And Station to Park again. It seemed to me That there were always floors But some of them were banned: Walking upon them an exercise In breathing air that was not for me. From mountain to hillock From river to tree. There were floors on which I scratched my name Three clean strokes Made dirty in shame Making a white mark Indelible, ugly Intent on performing things That I didn't know. Indignities carved into trees Your name and mine In a heart intertwined Growing like a scar A riddle, a promise A threat. And yet, and yet And yet.... The floors I trod in cities I left - The floors I trod Searching for my Grandfather and his Simple life His chickens His beard His candles His knife: Come to the garden! Come with me! He lifted me up onto his shoulders To see, And brought the knife down On the chickens neck And I cried and scream And he patted my leg Indulgently holding The bird upside down To bring to Grandma To cook for tea Her meat stew bubbling Upon a stove while Telling me things I did not understand So softly and tenderly despite his rough hands: He remains a giant to me... All came to nothing But a few headstones A name, a whisper scratched upon itself Stylishly in sand and loam Buried in the mud. Grandfather told me Stories about the flood Tales of women with Heavy lidded eyes, Doctors who helped; And those who do not. People born. And those Left to rot..... He wove for me In blossoms and twigs A crown one summers day. He put it there upon my head And he began to pray I want to go back in time, Tell him it didn't work My life was one of misery One full of pain and hurt. I suppose I have always been Cruel, unkind More keen to raise a sneer Than a smile. But there was that day, In that meadow there That grandfather wove a crown of flowers In my hair And I had Possibilities Instead of floors The last time I saw him I pulled closed his Big wooden door with the lion knocker. He looked so much older And I was lost to him And he to me. But I remain his Harvest Girl In that day back in that old country Some May Where Sorrow Has never been and never Can it be.
Lovely. You missed a ‘there’ in the fist line…
whoops! Thanks Ron!