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.