A poem about the memories contained in a house.


sitting in the empty house

we sit on the floor / backs to wall
in a notquite silence.

Not quite because the acoustics
have been removed along
with our possessions.

Memories echoing back through years
bouncing off walls we’ll never have to paint.

This shell of our lives where we
conceived and half-raised three children.

The baggage of thirty years packed
blanketed and roped into a borrowed truck.

We look around at the hollowness.
We look around at each other.

We turn our backs to the walls
and walk out the front door

towards the future.



(from Original Clichés, Rob Walker, Ginninderra Press, 2016)