It was the house I grew up in.
I knew it down to my Mother’s sewing box,
The bobbins nestled and cozy
Next to the tomato pin cushion,
Jewel-toned textiled treasure
Peeking through an amber lucite lid.
Now there was space.
The rebarred pilings,
Bowed and mournfully praying.
Pieces of porcelain jutted from mud,
Elegant shrapnelled landscape.
In this tea party cemetery,
The ground beneath crunched.
And there was the piano,
A mess of wires and mangled teeth,
The bowl of collected matchbooks,
Strewn amongst the debris.