In Ruins (Poetry)

These walls once held the wind’s cold threat at bay
but, beaten now, they crumble and submit
to every gust that hastens slow decay,
the strangled garden’s strewn with fallen bricks
and, half-buried in the nettles, dock and sedge,
one rose survives beside the window’s ledge.

The door hangs from its hinges, flaking paint,
the wood has swollen, blackened by the rains,
the hallway’s patterned paper washed so faint
that nothing of its bold design remains,
and mould creeps from the skirting, undermines
the stubborn plaster’s hold with crazy lines.

The stairs have splintered, shreds of carpet cling
to rusted tacks, the bannisters are gone,
phone cables dangle silent as they swing,
the voices they once carried long moved on
to somewhere else — abandoning the spot —
their old house waiting patiently to rot.

If there are ghosts, they’ll find no solace here —
the spirit of the hearth and home is dead —
whatever laughter rang when life was dear,
the echo of that memory has fled —
the air smells bitter and the stunted rose
is doomed to wither, die and decompose.