Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Hollowed Houses

There's a hole in the ground where your house used to stand. Where the walls once stood proud upon that hill made of sand. There's a history gone, wiped out, and smashed. The empty space is quiet now besides the distant waves that crash. I wonder if you watch from the cemetery there, out across the road, and see the earth that's been bared. I wonder what you think of it, if anything at all, I wonder if you think my nostalgic feelings are pointless and small. But I miss your kitchen and its brown linoleum floor, I miss your cow hide rugs, and the club you kept beside the door. I miss the knick-knacks, the curios, the randomly placed treasures, the red cordial and biscuits you kept for your grandchildren's pleasures.

I listen to the birds you once fed as they call, they carry on and dart about as if you were never here at all. And so will all the people as they walk on by this place, a new unit block will be pushed into the sky and your house will be replaced. But I'll remember this, and you, until the day that I die, I'll carry this beautiful melancholy burden all my life with a heartbroken pride.

Image may contain: sky, grass and outdoor

No comments:

Post a Comment