It rained all day.
By 2pm the water climbed the kitchen table legs,
Cotton stripy apron wet and dripping from a peg.
It had happened again.
House by the harbour wall,
waves to crash the very door,
sea and sand and salt and surf and solid things no more.
front lawn, pretty view,
blowing gale and need for nets and spotted welly boots.
And salt made a mess of the floor,
skirting boards and cottage door,
worn and rough and by their best and these days looking old.
Rather like your boat.
Mend the deck and patch the holes,
rum and buoys and threadbare sofa, sprung and soft and torn.
Three years dead and gone - final ship set sail from home,
"Get me outta here my lass and let me back aboard,
water, waves and fishing nets and deck are all I know."
Bless you Dad you loved to sail but never liked a storm.
So I'll put the kettle on - tell the neighbours stories when they ask what caused the flood,
mop the floor and pour the tea and leave it to get cold,
catch a fish in plastic pail and fling it out the door.
I know that you'll be coming every time the heavens pour.
And you are welcome home - nice to see you standing there you didn't knock the door,
tell me sea-dog stories of a life spent on the boat,
bring the water, wind and rain and bring yourself of old.
But mind my floor - spare the wood and sodden core,
where you come from now you needn't worry for the storm.
Sit yourself and dry your boots and tell me how is Mum?
Those we love and lose live on forever in our home... x
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