!ns¡ght
By Tabish Khair
In my street there is a white house with a little grey gate
That is slightly off one hinge and always open.
An old woman sits on its porch and knits,
Looking up when the gate creaks with age or wind,
Expecting someone; though no one comes,
nor has come for years.
An old man sometimes tidies up the faded garden
Where shrubbery has spread, refusing to be weeded out.
Ever since I moved here I have seen this little white house-
With the old man and the old woman
and an old pattern of life-
Refusing to be weeded out from this skyscraping street;
Where two people had grown roots, once, scattered seeds,
And now, with a hope stubborn as weeds,
Still peer through curtained windows
when the gate creaks.
Copyright © by owner. Provided for educational purposes only.
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