The Maynard
Spring 2014

d. n. simmers


“The sun polishes the
grey wooden steps.”
— Stephen Berg

Mum sits on them. From another time. The current one
has no steps. But the invisible, where the
mind re-creates, they are there

Grey. Full of concrete and wood. She waits.
For us. To come home.

Most of the older ones are there. I will be
the last, to arrive. When that is

only the black dogs and the smiling man with silver
hair who checks his schedule, knows.
He just smiles.

So in a summer dress she sits and talks to her mum
and dad and my brother and our dog who licks
her hand

as days of summer come by.

The darkness before first light is deep in mist.
Feet will come up. Open the
front gate.

She will wave then. All the others
will be happy. As they wait for me, there.