by Samuel Skuse

A stranger lives in the house I grew up in.
I don’t know why I didn’t expect that
But I didn’t.

Just like I didn’t expect them to have redecorated,
Remodelled,
Removed everything I remembered.

Except a blue flowerpot,
Perched on the windowsill like a patient cat
Waiting for its owner to come home.

I remember my mum asking where did
That damn blue flowerpot ever get to?
And now I know

That it had to stay right there,
On a stranger’s windowsill
In a stranger’s house

To remind me that no matter what changes
Through a misty pane,
There will always be a blue flowerpot.