The lampshade hid the light

A little less

The hat-stand hid the head

That was amiss

The bookshelf stored

The books – every blue moon, read

The box – full to overflow

Of old books lacking ‘cred’.


The oven heated food

For his heart’s sake

The kitchen bench restored

After the bake

The foot, the thigh,

The hamstring –


Hand caressing tissue

On the couch –

No time to hate.


The letterbox

To brim –

Her letter found

The page

On which it’s written

Makes a sound.

The weeds that grew

Above the driveway

And the ground

Like an open place

Where one drowns out

The crowd


The sentiment,

In time –

That now was lost


That same sentiment


The sweetness of the curve

That met a bend

The lullaby, the lure,

Near the end.


The lampshade and the hat-stand,

The bookshelf and the box

The oven and the kitchen bench –

The letterbox.

The page, the words, the weeds

The sentiment, the bend

The lullaby, the lure,

Please. Defend.


Transpose into beginnings

For those with open mind

Worth a lasting home –

So hard to find.


Published by Owen Tilley