The Empty House
- Details
- Written February 2024
Beds unmade, the wig ready for the day;
Uneaten bread on the table,
A glass of wine half-drunk,
Rolls of silk wrapped up ready for delivery,
Ash in a burnt-out fireplace,
Candles burnt down to melted wax,
Cobwebs lining the corners -
The spiders long since gone.
The clock ticks, the bell tolls, the king is dead,
And we too must go - escape has been our life;
This time not with religious opposition,
But developers getting rich out of making it new,
When all we wanted was to be left alone,
Plying our trade, living our life, worshiping our God.
The dog, the cat, the canary remain,
But we have to go, leaving it as it was
And creep down creaking stairs.
So we stand in silence - reverential,
Acknowledging the departed,
Just wondering where they’ve gone.
August 2018
The Huguenot House, London