The sun now white, now molten,
above the burial mound.
In a far paddock,
the crows gargle.
Finally, the house is warm-
it has, finally, let us in.
Yesterday, it would not take to us.
Today, we will bring in piles of wood,
and we will show this old stone byre
who is boss.
We will tame the harsh malevolence,
heating every shadowed corner of the house,
letting in the light.
I will fill the kitchen with cooking smells.
I will inform the straight-backed chairs
that I could split them up for the fireplace
if I wanted to.
Was that what drove my father,
when I was small,
to split up Grandma's camphorwood box
for firewood?
Was it the only way
to put the ghosts
back in their place?
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