Stokkseyri

My weatherboard, my happy house;

youthful hours spent belly-down on Persian rugs, all sunshine and insecurity. Grey boy bounding down the stair and koi circling for food. One ankle draws circles in the air and runs, cable, to a knee: earthed. A raw heart, open with child-eyes to the possibility of change and the frustration of stagnation. The push-pull of first desire. The gushing blood of black endings.

I miss your quiet leaves and bay windows.
I miss my four green walls and grey curtains, alive with impossible love.

I will never hold him in clouded eyes again.
I will never return to you.