Sanctuary
You notice the trees, when
you've been away.
How they’ve towered and spread
and the house seems smaller, weathered
vulnerable,
seems to have settled into earth
as if it, too
had grown there.
The paint is peeling, faded
showing its age.
The shingles are stained
from dark tannins, dammed-up rain,
leaves, decomposing
in sagging gutters, badly plugged.
And the grass, thinned by shade
is sparser, tougher.
Gnarled roots
knuckle-up from the soil
like gothic horrors,
rough, and muscular.
When I departed
the place looked raw, the house exposed,
a bull-dozed tract
of sun-bleached grass
beyond the suburbs.
Now, under cool shade
and looming trees
it somehow seems warmer, cosier
welcoming.
And I feel old
to see how much they've grown,
how fast time passed
unnoticed.
But there are compensations, to ageing.
The beauty of this place
in graceful decline.
The saplings, I long ago planted
now giants.
And a home
where memory resides,
a rootless man
finds refuge.
The newest in a very long list of tree poems. As well as another very long list of poems about age, regret, melancholy.
My heating oil tanks had to be changed. My old ones were perfectly good, but they had passed the 10 year mark, and no one would certify them safe. The waste, arbitrariness and astronomical expense were incredibly annoying. But the passage of time was what was truly shocking. Until I checked the paperwork, it seemed as if I had just had those "old" tanks installed. And when the same guys came to do the work -- in a freezing wind in a cold January -- one commented on how he remembered the trees almost as saplings, and how startling it was to see how much they'd grown. It was as if my subjective sense of time (like his) was way off; unlike trees, which do not deceive, but stand like sentinels of the hard truth. ...Or maybe not so hard, since trees improve with age, along with the view.
I spend too much energy fretting about growing old (which sounds at least a little more positive than "getting" old!) And society/culture certainly reinforce that message. But there is also much to be said in favour of age and maturity. Which is the point of this poem. Yeah, the place is older; but it's improved. Have I, as well?
I think my favourite bit is settled into earth/ as if it, too/ had grown there. I like the personification of the roots as gothic and muscular. And also the final two lines: the call-back to "roots", and ending on the powerful word refuge. In the middle, there is a nice through-line of rhyme: just enough that it flows, but doesn't seem heavy-handed or over-stylized. If you hadn't noticed -- and I hope you didn't -- it goes plugged, gutters, tougher, knuckle, rough, muscular, sun, suburbs. And just now, on re-reading, I was surprised to notice how well house and vulnerable work together, sharing the same unusual vowel sound. (At least for Canadians; doesn't work with the American pronunciation of "house"!)
How they’ve towered and spread
and the house seems smaller, weathered
vulnerable,
seems to have settled into earth
as if it, too
had grown there.
The paint is peeling, faded
showing its age.
The shingles are stained
from dark tannins, dammed-up rain,
leaves, decomposing
in sagging gutters, badly plugged.
And the grass, thinned by shade
is sparser, tougher.
Gnarled roots
knuckle-up from the soil
like gothic horrors,
rough, and muscular.
When I departed
the place looked raw, the house exposed,
a bull-dozed tract
of sun-bleached grass
beyond the suburbs.
Now, under cool shade
and looming trees
it somehow seems warmer, cosier
welcoming.
And I feel old
to see how much they've grown,
how fast time passed
unnoticed.
But there are compensations, to ageing.
The beauty of this place
in graceful decline.
The saplings, I long ago planted
now giants.
And a home
where memory resides,
a rootless man
finds refuge.
The newest in a very long list of tree poems. As well as another very long list of poems about age, regret, melancholy.
My heating oil tanks had to be changed. My old ones were perfectly good, but they had passed the 10 year mark, and no one would certify them safe. The waste, arbitrariness and astronomical expense were incredibly annoying. But the passage of time was what was truly shocking. Until I checked the paperwork, it seemed as if I had just had those "old" tanks installed. And when the same guys came to do the work -- in a freezing wind in a cold January -- one commented on how he remembered the trees almost as saplings, and how startling it was to see how much they'd grown. It was as if my subjective sense of time (like his) was way off; unlike trees, which do not deceive, but stand like sentinels of the hard truth. ...Or maybe not so hard, since trees improve with age, along with the view.
I spend too much energy fretting about growing old (which sounds at least a little more positive than "getting" old!) And society/culture certainly reinforce that message. But there is also much to be said in favour of age and maturity. Which is the point of this poem. Yeah, the place is older; but it's improved. Have I, as well?
I think my favourite bit is settled into earth/ as if it, too/ had grown there. I like the personification of the roots as gothic and muscular. And also the final two lines: the call-back to "roots", and ending on the powerful word refuge. In the middle, there is a nice through-line of rhyme: just enough that it flows, but doesn't seem heavy-handed or over-stylized. If you hadn't noticed -- and I hope you didn't -- it goes plugged, gutters, tougher, knuckle, rough, muscular, sun, suburbs. And just now, on re-reading, I was surprised to notice how well house and vulnerable work together, sharing the same unusual vowel sound. (At least for Canadians; doesn't work with the American pronunciation of "house"!)
As always, the poem is not autobiographical. The place was
never a bull-dozed tract (at last not when I bought it), and it's lot closer to
wilderness than subdivision. There were always mature trees; just not so close
to the house. And I never left -- the last man you'd ever call rootless!
(It could us a coat of paint and a good gutter-cleaning, though ...and the lawn
sure leaves a lot to be desired!)
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