Beauty, Creativity, Photography, Poetry, Video

a little house (by susan and trevor)

“It’s hard to drive March Road, just north of Upper Dwyer Hill Road, without acknowledging the forlorn, weather-beaten log home that sits in the middle of the field to the east of March,” wrote photographer and digital artist Trevor Johnston by way of introduction on his Facebook posting. “The house begs me to stop and photograph it each time I pass. With Thursday’s heavy fog shroud and faint, fall colours in the distance, I finally listened.”

The image elicited dozens of replies on the Friends of Mississippi Mills FB page, including these:

“That house always calls to me. Not going to lie, I have been tempted to visit it (though I never have). Beautiful picture!” ~ AM

“I love that house! Someone once told me that a family of 11 children was raised in it. Don’t know if it’s true but I like to think that it is!” ~ HA

“I want to know the story behind the place. I think about it every day as I drive past.” ~ PC

“Here’s a little history…it was last lived in by Jack Killeen and family…he was my grandfather’s (Angus Killeen), oldest brother…hope that helps a little! I remember as a very young girl (😊) going there with my Dad and brother to drop off some of my Mom’s baking when Jack died.” ~ HK-B

“I’d love to have a print of this!” ~ EJ

I too was moved when I saw Trevor’s photograph of the lone log house in the field, which, like so many other people, I have driven by, admired, and well, also wondered about.

Words spilled out of me almost immediately, and a poem quickly took shape. I combined my poem with Trevor’s pic to create a short video (the poem and the pic appear separately right below the vid):

a little house

© 2018 punkie

a little house sits
and silently calls
its misty companion
a tree in the fall

the faintest of tracks
leads near to the door
empty windows look out,
are they hoping for more?

who lived there? who died?
within its four walls
who played on the floor
with tops and rag dolls?

a mother, a father
their daughters and sons
are ghosts in the past
though once they were young

grey logs and cracked mortar
keep the weather at bay
what’s inside is a mystery
wrapped in history and clay

a bit of tin roof
is gone at a corner
none to notice or fix it
even when days are warmer

then in the stillness
a heart makes itself known
it opens, then whispers:
“i’m eternity’s home.”

a little house sits
and silently calls
its misty companion
a tree in the fall

 

Image © 2018 Trevor Johnston; Eye Meets World Photography and Trevor Johnston Illustration & Digital Art. To order a print of “a little house,” click here.

Words © 2018 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry and posts widely, but please do not reprint, reblog or copy and paste them in their entirety without my permission. Thank you.

 

More poetry at these links:

grist for the mill

about better bee-haviour

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