The House

On the hill stands
a cracked-toothed curmudgeon
of a ruined house. It aches
in structural senescent defiance
groaning under a spiteful sky
that drowns Its reproach
till it is left
a sodden wretch.

Draped in its tattered
fineries. Weeping.

Wrecked walls shed the bonds
between bricks as one by one
they are lost
like memories to the past.
A home without a family,
a family without mortar.
Forgotten,
frondescent fingers claw
through the cracks and crumbs
of a body that bears
the vermiculation of neglect.

I see its lonely silhouette and wonder
if I stood still for long enough,
would I succumb to the same sorrow
and be left
to disintegrate,
in an open grave
under a lidless sky.

Adrian Eagle lives in Milnsbridge near Huddersfield and spends his time on a rope inspecting the railway viaducts in the north west of the country. This is his first  published poem.