Thursday, 21 September 2017

Hope is like Water:

Again I have broken in,
like a tooth ache calling
a tongue,
this house beckons

as I pass it every day
from your house to mine;
it speaks in many voices
this old house

with the sign out front
letting me know
its time is short.
I know about short time.

I understand the way
it sits still,
waiting demolishment;
I can hear its soft final sigh

tinged with regret
as it echoes to the feet
that once ran up and down the stairs.
I enter via a downpipe

every night around twelve,
carrying a bottle of port or some such.
I sit in this silent house and drink.
I feel something in my heart,

like the petals of a magnolia tree,
fall silent
down a deep, deep well
into an emptiness

I had never thought possible.
Sometimes I waken
to the bird calls, quickly leave via the front door
hoping in my absence

you may have telephoned.
I feel hope rising in my chest;
knowing, even as I hurry,

everything is too late.

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