Yellowwood


You are a house I am no longer allowed access to,

My childhood home, gated.

So I scale your rotting walls,
Run along the cool grass,
The kitchen is lit apricot.

At our old yellowwood table sit a
strange family.
I see the familiar scratches on the surface.
Of decades of flavour being cut into it.
Garlic, onions and wood.

How does it feel,
To be so satisfied with memory?

I'm sorry I'm not as good as you,
At letting go of precious things.

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