The House That Blew Away (Poetry)

Exposed — a weather-sore misshapen thumb
stood out — detached — anchored at the edge of land
as though quarantined
built a safe distance from
the unravelling of homes strung round the bay.

Angular — a basic geometry
of need for shelter strong against the blast
sea and sky — the wet of squall that cast
a string of curses — damned its squinting eyes
and cracked sand-clouded glass.

Years punished it — whipped stern at the shingles
nailed to their steep-pitched roof
storms bullied and taunted the dumb walls
while rusted cables wailed in protest — strained
to get away — iron rings resisted — drilled stubborn
                                into rock.

But winters are persistent — cruel by nature
gather up like gangs and take their toll.
As the house grew old — unkempt — abandoned
to the fickle elements — the cables sang
sea-hymns to the grinning sky.

A passing gale undid it — loosed one slackened hawser-hold
so wires snapped back — untwisting — lashing at
the screaming air. Another followed — wrenched itself away
so the house became a seesaw world
of sliding relics on a tilted tray.

The chimney toppled — split its smoke-black heart
and tore a hole to let the wind rush through
spiralling it filled the rooms and ripped apart
the rotted staircase — roaring as it went
doors flying off — dark windows shattering.

The gap a wide black mouth that bellowed pain
it buckled — bellied inwards — found a death
fragmented by the elements that left
bones scattered — boards and nails thrown to the sea
the house erased — the rock washed bare again.

Wreckers lived there once — their vanished name
unuttered — legend bloodied and reviled
both family and property. That storm
cleansed the land of memory and stain —
wood and iron erode eventually...
                                and folk forget.