Walls talk

 Walls talk

john clare stokes 

They often ask in cliche tones if only walls could talk

And I tell them again, they do, you just weren’t taught their language

The manner in which they speak,

Continually telling those who know, with every creak in every shadow; telling you, 

Take the time, stand ever so still, perhaps you’ll discern;

Listen, from the cool sand below the porch, the sound of playing, the lift of laughter:

The peeling paint above revealing the layers of many cheerful coming over greetings,

The haint blue porch ceiling, the spooks confusing,

not wanting to be sent into the water,

off the silver now brown tin the rain pattering in unison

to the old dog fennel hounds howling to the familiar tune.

In the crisp fall the old screen door spring snapping open and shut, 

The voice to the ones in the field loudly calling them in

Some summer sultry days the conversations swell louder than the myriad cicadas dictating the words,

Rising to abruptly fall in silence as the invisible 

conductor lowers the limb wand. 

In winter you can hear the burring words in the chattering chill

Swear from the cracked chimney a fire was yet glowing 

Sending sweet aromas of curing one could cut and taste,

the front room always kept warm for the ones

outside wandering afar

Wondering if the inner wars they were battling would

ever come to terms of peace

The smooth glass door knob turning in the evening gloam

Those huddled about the hearth determined they heard the words of one long ago journeying 

But it wasn’t the traveller returning after all

It was but the talking walls 

Yes, the echoes off the walls telling it all.

Gum Swamp Rd

Burned down