this old teak farmhouse creaks this morning.
like an old woman settling into her favourite chair.
we will need to paint again soon,
the coastal wind abraids
her seascape blueskin
and the sun, bleaches it
to a faded blue grey.
she has seen so much,
when they first cleared
the land on the rise of the cliff.
she was the only house for miles and she watched
the farmer's cows stand placid accepting of the buffeting wind as they chewed their cud.
she watched the slow encroachment of the town on her fertile red loamed pastures.
as tall white ghost gums and norfolk pine trees,
gave way to squat ugly houses and box like apartments.
stacking families atop families.
she saw horse tracks
turn to black ribbons of rock and tar,
the neighing clopping rhythm
become buzzing booming honking discord.
she watched families,
come and go,
loving, living, dying and all the life and strife in between.
she is solid still,
she was built to withstand, man's mark upon the everchanging land.
she is our patch of love now, we have the upkeep of her care.
but inside her snug old walls we known she carries
the tales of times long past and will with time keep
our families secrets just as well,
we are but passing through she as creaky as she is,
will be here standing, watching after we have moved on.
