Country Home Megan Young I'm imagining a country home for myself, a quiet corner of somewhere. It has old wallpaper on the walls of the parlor, which are still splendid with a light beautiful pattern like my grandmother would have loved. Faded lace curtains pulled back by crème ribbons lets the light fall in shafts where the cats sleep, or keep slit eyes on the lovebirds in the old brown wicker cage. A dinged old teapot calls from the warm kitchen, with whitewashed brick walls and mismatched chairs, and a scuffed table with knitted cloth placemats. The bench under the window holds pots of flowers, sitting in the lazy sun, and metal tubs of green life are echoed around the room, some with fresh herbs for dinner, some just for the beauty of their faces. The pantry is dark, and down a flight of rickety old stairs. It's full of the smells of provisions long since past, and now-drying herbs. Another set of stairs leads up, outside, to the verandah, with vines climbing the fences and the faded sides of the house. It overlooks the garden with all the foods I love and hate: potatoes and corn, peas, beans and carrots. Raspberry bushes grow wild in the back, ruby red and delicious. The cats stalk amongst the plants - such little tigers. And always in this house there's laughing company, cackling women who sit around the table, telling stories and drinking from old mugs. They tell of their lives as they were, their youthful joys, follies and their loves lost. And when they go their voices still echo. And I'm inundated by so many lives while I sit and think in my parlor by the fire. Published in Out/Words #3 (view contents) Discuss this work in our Forum Back to poetry - main