On a once green hill,
a white house dims
into the mesh
of a snowstorm.

The roof of blue slate
faded to grey.
Wind sings a death march
on copper mossed gutters
and the teeth
of oaken rafters.

The range,
a memory
of coal black
and warm fire
red and orange
spark and ember.

Now cold and miserable,
dust of death
set hard.
Spider webs coat
a hook, rust and regret.

Once a kettle hung
whistling songs
of tea and soup
and thick stew.
After school
November in retreat
A knee
A kiss on pinked cheeks.

The long black hearse
makes the slow climb
through the February

A man, thin and drawn,
eyes worn and wet,
face Florida tanned
stands in the lee
of a half door

A last duty
to a Mother
he has not seen
in twenty years.
Two decades of regret
and a promise of letters
not written.

– Dave Kavanagh

2 thoughts on “Desolate

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