The rift
was caused
by the absent hand
I lost
In the darkest room

Cyclic tears
Of love and loss
For those that
Live

Buried with
Young memories
In the back rooms
Of our old life

Scorched tape
rests with
Faded slides
And static

By Darren Wall

Knee deep in the weeds
To the sound of water

Leeched skin drains
In the River Cole

Excited barks
In the clay banks

Rodents tease
The old black dog

Long grass forts
And half mile trenches

The quest for sticklebacks,
Minnows and chubs

Neighbour wars
Over fresh cut turf

Jumper goals hide
The weakest squash

The unmatched
And unskilled teams

Played till the streetlights
Brought us home.

By Darren Wall

.
returning to my childhood home in thought
returning   to mallard quacks tolling
and the hour toiled                                    
                    by­ ever thirsty church bells
cold damp rock house with ammonites
and belemnites coiling in the walls
and a cooling ichthyosaur                                  
futilely trying to swim in the silty soil
struggling to catch prey                      
                      beneath the foundation
            its darkness is rummage
.
a flush lawn  planted nilly and obscene  
monkshood  mint  cotton grass and ling
warm mentions  an evening fire                 
                      and the family room
i'm mooding through the memory              
               and it grooms apart  organic
birthing  not  river  not  smoke
rat sized earwigs take to the air heat
over the boiling tar garage roof
and i return home back through time
child swinging on thick vines suspended
by the yew over the stream              
the willows dapple and paddle
the fir trees return                                          
fierce sproutings of involving shade
ridding the house                        
 of the intruder new extension                
riding time back                    
and the caravan my parents                          
            would later park on concrete
                             is swallowed
the storms of a bad year return the old wall
at the property edge
and the cottage reforms an ancient pace
                          with its surroundings
.
it's no longer my families claimed place
re-seemed with ghoulish history
the workhouse returns                      
           and files with hard poverty
the wall punches through                      
         in what will be the kitchen
and the cottage runs through long     
with the neighbours space
dormitory takes the whole upstairs length    
and the legend of the garment thief
drops ghost and rumour to live again
and then all this too flees out of history
.
rushing back through time                      
          and this all sinks into the levels
swamp life takes over
and the ammonites                            
           moisten with anticipation
prehistory is sprout   to begin
.

I live at the gates
Of "wine country."

God's celebratory land,
Where He spoke of milk and honey
And produced great fruits of His hand.

I've gone on a tour or two,
Heck, my Dad almost part-owned
A slew —

I have memories of sloshing around.
Of swigs, only to spit them out
And of trying it all over again.

Under one of my childhood homes,
There was a cellar full
Of wines —
My father, chest proud,
Would take tours down, underground,
I would sometimes hear
His commentary...I'd shake my head
And roll my eyes —

But now, as I look back,
Over those times
How grateful I am
For those memories:
And the fruits
From those vines.