The Old House.

I dare not enter that street now:

I know the buddleia to be gone,

so proud he was of it,

so fascinated with the butterflies,

the red admirals, tortoiseshells, orange tips,

peacocks and cabbage whites.

I still wonder if the yellow Welsh poppies

spring from the cracks in the tarmac

beside the house; if the lad's love

from grandma's top garden,

or catmint, I used to squeeze

between my fingers

for the scent of the past,

still grows around the back?

The garage where he pottered

with lead weights, hooks and line,

is demolished now; I know

no old tools, no spinners,

fishing reels or rods exist,

there is nothing left to indicate his pain,

his life of torment: his passing.

Why should there be?

The house is but a shell,

a shelter from the storm,

a place to return to from war,

sometimes a prison.

The butterflies I hope

have stolen his soul,

and like divine spirits,

seek their nectar

in some wild garden cliff

over-looking calm blue sea.