The Summer House by Charlotte Dickie

ILLUSIONS

It is so different, but perhaps that is because I expected it to be the same

You hesitate in the car, and I watch you breathe in

tobacco smoke that conjures memories of Father and his pipe on the verandah

Long summer nights where we’d escape the confines of a roofed house for the beach

dusk our only blanket, the ocean drifting us to sleep

and you’d name all the constellations in the sky

You’d point them out, but I could never quite understand the fuss

or how it was possible to find art in religion

“The original Van Gogh”, “His masterpiece”, which I disputed fiercely

But I saw your eyes light up like dying stars when you rhapsodised

and I marvelled at how little we knew but how wise you could be

When we grew up the question was not what, but how

and I listened to the timbre of your voice

reverberate with philosophy and astrophysics as you pleaded for answers

from an illusion that would never speak

and suddenly I felt as though we sat on the edge of the universe

two insignificant specks lost in the void

because the world is filled with e m p t y s p a c e

and hollow smiles,

meaningless chatter

But your words and my silence ran deeper, they spoke over the commotion

and in that moment we were gods

SMOKE

It has rained recently

The cobwebs on the gate are threaded with translucent beads

that shimmer like pearls on a necklace

and instantly I think of Mother

Together we stand on the precipice, suspended in liminality

Neither gods nor children

enlightened or ignorant

Ahead of us there is nothing

but nothing is still something

so perhaps a fragment remains

We don’t step across the threshold

f a l l

The day I got old didn’t come with realisations, but rather confirmations

Life doesn’t owe you anything

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how sorry you are

and wishes are for children

I watched as flames peeled back painted walls

they seared brighter than Acrux, Achernar, Toliman

until a whole chapter of my life had been devoured

“The sky above proclaims His handiwork”

I’ve never believed, but in that moment I wondered if the fire had been mine

You sigh and tell me that ghosts still haunt this old ruin

and I wonder if you mean us

HOME

The Summer House is a cemetery of dreams

the place where we became disillusioned and discontented

the place where we grew up

The Summer House is a cemetery of dreams

and all cemeteries must have flowers

We are right, in the tea garden grow roses the colour of pink champagne

constellating where the sunlight hits the charred darkness

and the damp earth smells of spring

You say that they’re filling up the e m p t y s p a c e

and I think of vases by the staircase filled with those same roses

you say they smell like home but I disagree

Because home isn’t a place, and it isn’t a person

It’s a feeling

Places burn, they crumble

and wear down into dust

And people change, they become disaffected

and bitter, and bored

But feelings are intangible, they are not as easily defined or defied

I can’t reach out and trace them with my fingertips

I think of the night we sat on the edge of the universe

and the galaxies in your voice

I think of raindrop beaded necklaces

and a summer house untouched by powers greater than ourselves

and for a moment I am home

Second (seniors)

Charlotte Dickie
Year 13, Logan Park High School