The birdhouse has become
A wind instrument,
Calling up a fine tune.
The rabbit hutch
A home for nameless
Creatures, wandering in and out;
Nature’s bothy,
But no obligation of care.
And the washing pole
Merely stands tall,
Unused and rusted,
A monument to the ravaged.
The grass grows long
But not impossibly so.
And there is much
Of emptiness and loss.
The house itself
Must be home of ghosts.
I am not spiritual
But they are here,
Sowing unease and discomfort.
Upon the stair
Fear to tread.
Because not to
Courts the consequence
Of a foolish pride.


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