lonely to rot
amoungst a town of faces, fresh and breezy
on their seperate route
through the turning seasons.
Walking by the little terraced square
surrounding it -
apart from us and still so much a part
of the mountain scene -
We peer through untroubled eyes
and wonder at the hole in the wall:
Word on the street is that there was a fire,
kitchen lighting up the night, not your usual
evening meal. Our own
is fretful but not lonesome. Or perhaps
the people squeezed around the table
are not looking at the same things,
and the house in its little weed-garden
is only part of the scenery
and is lost to those who do not see.
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