Barbara Fisher: Viewpoints

Viewpoints

Seven years old and fearless,

I climbed to the top of the tree

in that green English garden,

pushing through curtains of leaves ––

oak, sycamore—I forget which—

scrabbling footholds.

The lawn below disappeared

as from my perch the market town

spread before me, rooftops

steaming in June sunshine.

A train pulled out of the station

with a plume of smoke.

The church clock struck ten.

Small figures made their way

down High Street, a bus

came over the hill

and in the misty distance

I saw fields of watercress

by the river, but not

the mean terraces nearby.

These tiny houses on the edge of town,

the poor edge, said people

who didn’t live there,

had always puzzled me.

It was not just the front doors

opening onto the street,

it was the doorsteps,

all of them scrubbed snowy white.

How, I wondered, could anyone

put a foot on such perfection?

How did anyone

get into their house,

let alone get out?

It was a long time before

I understood the importance of

an immaculate doorstep.

Barbara Fisher