Jason Morgan: ‘The old house’

The old house

I am almost there

at the old house
where the grass is tall

and the river weeps.

Under floorboards,
moonshine bottles
and newspapers
keep their secrets.

Cold sun, warm moon

and grass in my pockets.
Although I know the roads,

I’ll never reach the old house.

Still I march through shadows
beside the asphodels,

dressed with grief’s garments
shining new and bright as the moon.

Jason Morgan