Poetry (words)

The house.

Through all its incarnations the house remains unchanged, like a ship repainted dripping in repair, a life lived, scars less obvious, but intact.

The staircase in part reclaimed by nature still grand. On the walls faded outlines of portraits and family trees, layers of time shedding skin.

Stories endure here, echoed scribblings from the writer’s pen, captured and encased unhindered by the present. Tenacious are the dreams that walk these halls.

Veins of melancholia climb like lianas seeking strength firmly rooted in another time.

Light still fills this space. A coloured spectre filters through stained glass to dance upon these walls at sunset before it sinks beneath the land. For now the house belongs to moonlight.


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