What was he doing in the Adanac House,

the conjured ideas and the stories

he would recount and regale me

with as I sat on my young backside,

at his feet, staring up at this giant of a man, always

knowing in the back of my mind

that I could never match him

in spirit, endeavour or deed,

indeed as he swam Lake Ontario

as a young man, before the Birmingham Blitz

came calling and the chance to drive

a tram through dust laden

post war streets and roads, psychologically

damaged by bombs and breakdown

filled his heart.

 

The Adanac House,

dusky green door to match the window

frames but with the hint of yellow,

just the barest touch

which made out front seem dull and neglected

as the Selly Park sun caught the paint

dancing with natural air, protected

by the green bush in which

the occasional spider caught be seen

weaving between the stubble pricks

and the wooden latched gate.

I always associated the dense forest

of Adanac with this green

and the pages upon books

upon shelves upon, upon, upon

a sentence never completed,

only time stood still in that front room

where books, a piano and what would be now

a vintage but much loved record player

encased in wood, gleaming as I was allowed

to play music in there whenever

I stayed over at the Adanac House.

 

All Gods die, it is eventual, the final test

of the teenager’s dream to see

a hero fall, in the quiet of the Adanac House,

on St. David’s Day the mirror failed to register

movement as the chair that captured

a thousand horse races and a love of the Blues,

fell silent under the weight

of memories, of a life that had begat life…

a god died in his sleep, in his chair, near his books

and behind the door painted green

and the sign soon forgotten by all;

the tales of the Adanac House lived on,

soon they shall be forgotten too.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016