THE BLACK HOUSE
The house stood alone
beside the beck
its walls pitched in black
ebony
against the skyline
tarred
against the weather
cold and dark
somehow so sinister
but housing
a family of seven
Fortunes told
fortunes lost
life’s foragers
five kids
one my age
runny nosed urchins
unwashed
unabashed
‘Throwers of words
As they did stones’
Banned from playing with
such snot- noses
yet,
from time to time
I did
their home a dark place
a cluttered life
midst the family debris
best left undisturbed
Mused
amused
and yet afraid
in such alien space
I shrivelled
and fretted
Only outdoors
in the wood-burn
tarred
air of their yard
there was a happiness
I could recognise
participate in
hiding in the woodpile
humping logs
to build a den
sticks
goading the dog
encouraging
the excitement of his barks
teasing the tangled
knotted
sheepdog blackness
of his coat
loving the illicit thrills
on offer at
The Black House
Before running
the beck-side wall
to return to
my own good fortune
warm and bright
fire
forge
and furnace –
Red
Not Black.
your words remind me of Call the Midwife series
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Well, Gina … the era is about right! Thank you for ommenting
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Wonderful thoughts and memories captured here Roland. I am sure the family welcomed your visits.
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I do wonder how things turned out for all of them. Doubt if they’d remember me. Thanks for commenting, Davy.
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Brilliant piece. Coming from a family of 15, it is an easy thing for me to relate to the black house.
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Thank you, Jerry. That’s some family! Glad it chimed with some of your own experience.
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