Yellow House by Geoff Callard

There are white stones laid carefully at the door of my yellow house.
Not sure what that means.

I’ve only just moved in, recently divorced, or so it seems;
it was news to me.

A shower of rain passes, I can hear the soft rattle on the roof next door.
That’s a sound a man never grows tired of.

Last night the neighbours lit a barbecue, stood around the fire
with their beer-cans and paper plates.

On the dark periphery, almost out of view, a young man knelt
in front of a girl sitting in a canvas chair.

He lifted her leg gently, hands under her calf,
lowered his mouth to kiss the sole of her foot.

She smiled at him, a curl of hair falling across her face.
Make of that what you will.

I have put the white stones on the window ledge in my kitchen
so they can catch the sun in the morning.

I medicate myself according to instructions,
not enough, though, and as I lay down,

staring up into the darkness,
I can’t help thinking of that delicate kiss

and wonder if the young man
knows what he’s doing.



Geoff Callard is a New Zealand-born, Melbourne-based writer. He was the featured poet at the Australian launch of the anthology Planet in Peril (Fly on the Wall Poetry, 2019) and has had poetry published in Golden Walkman, Write to the River, Live Encounters Poetry and Writing, and Blue Nib. Geoff also has work forthcoming in the fourth volume of PausePressPause.