Sestina
by Asha Gatland
I return to my old home Too old now for it to be the same place Of my youth, the house with the lemon tree. There are cold tiles instead of a table Covered in newspaper to stop the paint From dripping. No jam fingers on white walls, No crayon marks. Now the walls Close in on all sides with no sense of home To hide them. Polish masks the trace of paint, Fills it with the scent of another place, One with a linen cloth on its table. There are no lemon blossoms on the tree – A skeleton of a tree – Twistedly naked, bare as white on walls. A husk of its fruit lolls on the table In a glass bowl carved to mirror a home. Dried of juice or seeds it assumes the place Of a still life – frozen – ready to paint. But there’s no space at the table to paint The death of a lemon or undressed tree. Beneath the mantel, a cleaned-out fireplace
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