DEMOLITION

Peter Woodgate

I returned to the site

where bulldozers were dumping

my past into the future.

 

Each end of the terrace

had already been demolished,

with bits of rafter and tiles

protruding from the remaining buildings.

These now resembled the carcass

of half-eaten carrion.

 

I looked at it sadly,

the house stared back blankly,

like a man condemned

and resigned to the gallows.

 

Ground floor windows boarded up.

Did they keep the squatters out?

Or trap my spirit within?

 

First floor windows, black and grey,

shapes formed in each smashed pane

reminding me,

of a bygone geography lesson.

The soot black bricks

and peeling paintwork,

added to the air of despair.

 

Here was the foundation of my innocence,

my dreams, my aspirations.

Part of me was absorbed,

within that crumbling masonry.

Soon it would be destroyed,

along with my heart.

 

A steady drizzle had collected

within the leaking gutter

and, as I turned to leave,

it dripped, with a silent splash,

onto the weeds below.  

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate