Everything here is further than the moon,
this house minds its rarity of air in little things.
Boxed memories, inner emigrants.
I sew pieces of reality back to back,
the stuff of families, frayed facts,
darned and underpinned, unpicking old threads.
Look, that handbagged rectitude of granny’s posture,
hands cool as pious fish, a brown steady flow
of knick-knacked parlour tea, blanched widowing.
Brothers pegged and door-slammed, fitful fistful,
taut as washing lines. Mum, sweetly starched,
bleached by all she never chose to see,
and Dad, bricked, claggy with our mortar,
building us in. Home is a far dying star,
planetary nebula, such a distant constellation.
(in response to March 2015 Slant Poetry Prompt Challenge: Distance)
Mary Norton Gilonne is a translator and has been living in France for many years, but is originally from Devon. She has been twice short listed for the Bridport prize and published in several online magazines.
Photograph of nebula courtesy of: PublicDomainPictures.net.