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,