24 MOLESWORTH ROAD

The end of it all is always the same,
the door you go out is the way that you came.
What you created
and built in the void,
once you’ve vacated,
is quickly destroyed.
It burns in the garden
is bagged up and binned,
discarded debris
a foil for the wind.

The end of it all is always the same
the door you go out is the way that you came.

One moves on of course.
The fruit lets go the tree.
The voices of children
fade into stillness.

Mantras are no longer chanted.
New hands disturb old dust.
Nothing is lost
for the mind is quite free.

Not so the spirits
that are left behind;
the eye in the lower yard
guarding a well long gone,
the presence at the bottom of the stair,
the shadow in the dining room.
They wait and watch. They are still there.

.

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