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
AUTHOR
Ciaran Burke
Social entrepreneur, horticulturist, educator. Photographer, poet, artist and not a bad cook either!
The ceiling stayed white until i turned on the lightspreading the grey star shadow into existencepink butterfly lampshade, pendant around the bulbthe […]