An Old House Seen In Passing
The empty house on the hill tips into the chill wind
like a ship crawling port-ward, listing drunkenly
in a vast-sea void of tangled dry grass and
dead barbed-wire fences,
The window-frames hollowed and vacant,
even the doors pried from their hinges
in the swirling backwash of drowned years.
In an upstairs room, a cracked mirror
hides unknowable depths,
blinded by a yellowed sheet.
The boards warp and twist
as the water bleeds across the sagging ceiling,
and the doorways hold little
except the cold, and the hours.
