Seventeen years ago
a roar engulfed
the singing pines -
countless breaths exhaling
the needle sting of smoke.
They stood in shredded funeral garb
flinging glowing ember flowers
onto us below.
They witnessed our
syncopated falling
and the operatic scream
of twisting steel,
the cymbal crash
of exploding windows.
We knelt prostrate
before the fire
bowed and broken:
an army in black surrender.
Up on the hill, now
between the sleek sheets
of glistening modernity
and long embedded gardens,
I am still here.
The run-away grass
(that feathered doom)
tickles my concrete pad.
The triad tongues
of fire, water & tanin
have left printed shadows
and the jagged prod
of steel beams into nothing
is my toothy skyline.
The house that was.
The House at No. 3
Published
What a wonderfully descriptive poem. Great job!
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Thanks. I appreciate your comments.
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terrifying; love the ‘triad of tongues’
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Thanks. Abandoned places are kind of spooky especially when you can sort of read that kind of history into them.
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Wow. Just wow. Beautiful and tragic, powerful and sad.
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Gosh. Thank you! I’m so glad it had an impact.
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Reblogged this on Out of the Cave and commented:
Reblogging for Laura Bloomsbury’s dVerse Prompt “Outside Looking In”.
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Wow. Well done. Love this.
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Thanks. It’s a spooky place, in a way.
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