Sometimes I leave the housework and
the vegetable garden, the cattle, the field
where the men are sowing, climb
the mountain and step back in time.

I have to stoop to enter by the
hole and inside it’s cool and dark.
The body of white light does not
penetrate, only its fingers

touch the earthy floor, the straw,
to wake the warm smell of animals long
gone, reminding me of the time
before, when every day we scanned

that great expanse and wondered
if the food would last. So many mouths
to satisfy! Yet we could only do our best,
the outcome was not up to us.

If I’d known then what I know
now would I have climbed the steps?
So many friends and neighbours left
behind to die, and children too – what right have I

to live instead of them?
It’s quiet here, although the air once
buzzed and sang and roared and squeaked. The
timbers split and creak with dryness now

they’ve served their purpose.
The men – they never make
the climb – they’ve forgotten how this was our only
home, quite literally our lifeline.

I suppose that’s what happens when you’re
old, when you’ve outlived your use. You get
forgotten and left to rot. The old ship always
affects me like this. I shouldn't have come.