Grandma’s house with its black mansard roof
has long since crumbled into the ground.
The big bad wolf of time with a mighty huff and puff
seeing no one cared finally blew it down.
Only the fragrant tea roses remain
of her neglected legacy to scent the coastal air.
The berry bushes are gone like a lost refrain
as are the fruit trees that once flourished there.
The orange lilies have also succumbed.
The lower meadow hasn’t seen a scythe in ages.
Purple loosestrife spreads a deceptive beauty from
the roses to the meadow’s fenceless edges.
Higher up overlooking Smith’s Sound
I find rusted iron, a licence plate, a shriveled shoe,
the rusted hulk of Dad’s old Dodge, the foundation
of our old house, boards bleached by the moon.
Higher still a farrago of trees towers
over the ground where wild blueberries once grew
impenetrable as a twisted tangle of briar
full of fairy tale. Briar Rose where are you?
In back lies Lower Lance Cove pond
where we once caught speckled trout on worm and fly
but now gold-withy blocks the path around it.
Everything went to sleep when Grandma died.
Some sweet summer not many years hence
I hope to return to cut a path through the tangled mess.
Maybe I’ll build a small cabin and put up a fence
as though I could restore lost kingdoms with a kiss.