Rachael Hamilton The House Poetry

Rachael Hamilton

The House Poetry

The house stands alone desolate On a plain of empty brown fields Like an ironically standing definition Of abandonment

Violent wind and rain have beaten the wooden boards to the point of skeletal fragility in their harsh assault

broken shingles lay scattered around the house. The roof from which they fell Is bare and collapsed

Splintered window arches Hold but three whole panes Shattered glass litters the ground Their remains in the frame like jagged teeth stuck in a hollow, dead, mouth.

The left turret hangs At a precarious angle waiting To crumble, give in

A twisted worn path winds to where the front steps once sat. Under a thick carpet of weeds it is paved with slithers of stone intricately fit into each other.

The crooked overgrown trail Reaches the sinking front of the house. A stooping terrace overhangs one’s stance held on by only the remnants of time

As if to intimidate or unarm the confidence of unwanted visitors, the imposing result of condemnation shadows the wasteland surrounds