There are strangers in our house now.
They’re parked in the driveway, but
It’s the same stone my father laid,
And re-laid when it fell through that Winter.
The flood took our home. Luckily,
It left the house intact.
Anchor. Bricks and mortar.
The pictures keep falling off the wall.
I wonder if they know I’m on my way out.
Still the strangers stand at the door.
They wear our clothes and eat our food.
They wait for the pictures to fall.
They want to paint the walls.
Photos float ahead of me
Out of reach.
The ocean sits at the harbour.
He’s been waiting all Summer
Where the water sings beneath my skin.
Harbour by Amy Butler was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (May 2018) judged by Derek Adams