The stairs are long and steep,
The rail is high for tiny hand to keep,
All steps in darkness rest,
Small feet their courage to the test,
Into sterile world of white,
Of walls and ceiling bright,
Show from bare bulbs held over,
Tools and machines aliened with order,
No kitchen cupboard smell,
No warmth of mother’s dwell,
No fresh scent of outside stay,
No place in manly space to play,
Empty not of grandpa’s pipe and ash,
Fill here much labor, and toil in stash,
To boy child his first vision draws,
In grandpa’s cellar as man with life of cause.
-- jpr
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I think I went down there once that I remember, yet it's a dramatic memory for me still. It seemed like an alien world, something like an Andrew Wyethe painting. This poem captures it perfectly.
ReplyDeletesteps leading into cold
ReplyDeletesmells of damp earth and whitewash
compressor pumping
I refer to your poem capturing it perfectly. I had a supernatural scary feeling when I went down there.
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