(replacement house after fire)
This new house is a skeleton on another skeleton.
It’s as if the old house still exists in this space.
I walk through its walls.
I stand in the bedroom beside the old bed.
If I close my eyes I can look out of the old window
at the vibrant plum tree and into the eyes of cattle
that have since become meat.
The memories dissolve into reality:
the cool concrete underfoot
the quietness of double glazing and fine joinery.
The wind flutes across the chimney
louder and longer than the old one.
It’s a sad sound, like mourning.
Well, of course there is mourning.
That prior life is just below the surface of now,
all the lost things, the sunlight
on the bathroom wall, for example.
But, lets face it,
it was trouble, that old building,
with its moving joints and broken things.
This new one is attaining soul
slowly but surely.
One makes a home by sleeping there.
And the presence of the old building,
its warmth, and the love in its crevasses,
are still there, just out of sight
and sometimes, I walk through its walls.