The smoke from a pipe
Frozen solid by sunshine;
a different soap in the bathroom
and the scent of wintering apples.
The house stands like a single word
on an empty page
with its long flat views and memories
of waves breaking on the hills.
Never at television,
Just the crooning happy faced radio
with its box full of singers
bathed in the yellow glow
of Hilversum and Moscow.
And at the end of the day
Jesus smiling from the wall
and my Grandmother reading promises
from scripture tightly scrolled
and full of random surprise.
It was to do with dying.
Christ walking away from the picture
and waltzing my grandmother into the sunshine
in time to soft voices from her radio
as we shower them with handfuls of promises.
All the words from the Bible, falling like snow.
