There is still
A little left
Of the old house:
The foundations we
Laid; most of the ground
Floor; a flight of
Stairs leading
Nowhere; an upturned
Paint trolley in
The living room,
Now with a carpet of
Tangled weeds, and the
Residue of fallen
Autumn leaves.
The house that
Hope built, and then
Nature destroyed
Bit by bit, and
Left us carrying the
Consequences like a
Rucksack of bricks.
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