Spined brambles
hang in the once windowed arch
vine like pendulums
swing with the breeze
ticking off
time in painless repetition
measurement of
past rendered redundant by years
now is
the dwelling abandoned
to the present
carpeted by autumns
of decades
to create fertile depth
for new life
under the roof of sky and cloud
as moss painted
plaster peels away paint
to reveal the walls
that silently sequester
the memories
of the past inhabitants
gone forever
buried in the dappled light
of the whispering
rustle of neighbourhood gossip
past is the secret
stored in cold stone
forever mute
these walls don't talk.
Ciaran Burke
