‘Tis indeed a pitiful dwelling, left to Time’s evictions;
It rests amidst a vibrant town,
Where it must watch, through the immortal frost,
As lives are lived and lives are lost,
As days are reached and days are past
Beneath the gaze of skipping stars.
I stand alone in that forgotten heart
As night pirouettes and gracefully parts,
Almost as though it remembers
That hollow den.
Out in the orchard an owl hums,
Hooting beneath a moonless sky.
The faded curtains host the silverfish,
They flap gently as the zephyr
Rasps through the broken windows;
The vines creak.
The higher floors are nearly faded,
Woven back into the fertile earth.
The rafters o’er head are draped
In dark-born cobwebs which sway like hopeless fingers
In that sorrowful house.
On a peeling wall, riddled with mites,
A woeful portrait sleeps in tragedy.
The wonky hinge tilts the frame,
Crumbling in the half-light,
Towards the precarious floor boarding.
That sullen face sheds tears of cobalt
Which trace the loose threads of fabric.
Pulling back the snickering vines,
Stubborn in their stances,
I find a hefty bureau cast in pine.
It holds within its shivering clutches
Some sun-worn letter:
Yellowed parchment whose words are soft;
They are barely audible,
But just decipherable.
A solemn farewell those final lines convey,
And yet how ‘twas known their end was nigh,
Truth’s lips cannot be swayed.
As I ponder captured thoughts, I behold
A morose phantom sitting in the sycamore tree;
As the sun seeps through the heavens yond’
I see him clearly in the whim of dawn:
A forgotten soul, lost amongst the cinders.
W.A Moorfoot: United Kingdom, aspiring writing of poetry, fiction and philosophy.