Home No Longer

 

A wasteland of chalk where

Not even weeds grow, destruction is so new,

A door frame opens on to a plain of rubble, 

is a vestige of a community,

And mirror to a skeletal soul,

Compelled to move on. 


Gaunt walls remain

Marginal existence is edged out,

To fall back on a vagabond soul,

A nomad I am not,

But the home I cling to was crushed,

I stare at the battered paintwork.


Dark shadow incise walls and 

Under eaves and balconies

Iron grilles are fine etching

The battered pink door is a canvas in my mind


Slashing marks, swooping blade 

Gauges out a powdery salmon underlayer 

from a violet chalky paste 


A paper lantern hangs under a lintel,

Flimsy in its promise

Mineral plain of ochrous soil, crumling clay and conceet,

Ruined stucco moulding

Cracks appear and the thinnest dry grasses and wort 

Make their advance.


The funereal is all pervading,


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