That flat rock below the gap-toothed door
was once a step worn smooth
by feet of ancestors long gone.
And where are they now – those generations.
Where did they go as the water rose
unstoppably, to claim back the land.
If I close my eyes for long enough
there’s a child comes barefoot through the door
flowers for her mother who lies weak and cold
where the first damp rises.
This place between ice-smoothed cliffs
waits still for those who left.
I feel the dampness in the boards
fish swimming where eager feet once trod.
folding and dying
dropping roof tiles one by one
to float un-noticed on the lake.
© Maureen Sudlow