Moving

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Moving

An antique moving wagon with horse
My earliest memory is moving home –
a new laid house deposited in mud.
We huddled in plastic macs, drank tea
from thermoses – trippers on a wet weekend.
Our rooms impersonal, our belongings slung
on a careless lorry somewhere on the road.
Next move, we travelled southward
in snow. Found a house made gloomy
by blue windows, bleary paper,
garage ramshackle as storm damage.
We walked an unfamiliar route to town
found it over long. My brothers
stayed behind to face uncertain
future in furnished rooms.

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Minorvogonpoet

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