The Old Place (Poetry)

For Pearl

How come I didn’t sense she was a witch?
Her word was worthless, hollow as her purse.
Should not some nerve have jumped, my skin have itched
to warn me — steer me clear of her cold curse?

She’s squatting there like some contagious toad
in residence. The garden’s left to rot.
The cottage looks quite wretched from the road
fond memories the only salve I’ve got.

Her latest crime has cut me to the quick.
The maple I had nurtured down the years
now victim to her axe. The woman’s sick
to kill such beauty. Her intent appears

destructive — to undo what went before —
throw out the good, give in to slow decay —
let sloth and apathy creep through the door
and welcome ruin — let it have its way.

Those green things I’d long-watered — every leaf
that budded with each season over time
is under threat and tainted — greyed by grief
the sap somehow aware of its decline.

Such murder goes unseen — the passerby’s
oblivious to cruelty and neglect
but every detail haunts my searchlight eyes
I ache for every inch of home she’s wrecked.

The tree is down — I’m on my knees inside
although I try to keep a braver face.
If I had known before the ink was dried
I never would have let her buy the place.