The House On The Hill

By Freya Griffiths

It’s perhaps because or in spite of having experienced some variation of heaven 

That I have grown from beneath my father’s drum kit 

To find music in whacking sticks 

Because I was kneaded and folded beneath my mother’s chubby fingers 

To rise under scolding beams 

And gently plonk myself onto porcelain plates 

To be sweet on the tongue 

A palette cleanser between heartier meals. 

Did you know all of this from four visits to my parent’s house on the hill?

Did you know that feet sunk into northern soil need more than a wimpy ‘this way’ to uproot?

And the baseless blackening of sheep skin pulled tight over barrels 

Was like a Joni Mitchell CD in my father’s rattler.

I was pulled so taught that to strike me was to make music.