The past present future
of that house, across the railway line
under the mountain
There are two kinds of time –
chronos, clock time:
rain falls, cat purrs,
fan palms scratch the glass,
the present moment of my breath.
And aion, elastic time,
time pulled across past and present,
stretching forward over eons;
we take time with us,
walking on a bridge of stories.
Our old house is still there
since we left it in ’86:
collapsing in on itself, the garden
swallowed up by regretful trees,
the whole town stuck in perennial autumn.
The house bends and dips,
appears and re-appears in my dreams –
living in my inscape, it travels
with me across the outer plains,
the porous divides of time;
I am forever leaving it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Penwarden lives in Auckland and works as a counsellor educator. She has had poems published in Poetry New Zealand and Meniscus(AUS), short stories and poems for children published in The School Journal, and both poems and short stories published in takahē. She attempts to write from the meeting point of the inner and outer worlds.