We have forgotten
when exactly it was we found this refuge
and exactly why: what exhaustion
or curiosity led us to try the door handle
on this isolated abandoned dwelling,
fading whitewash on the walls, thatch
gone astray, no electricity,
no running water, no telephone,
but webs and moss and leaks and life
crawling and scuttling and scurrying
where the hand of man cannot reach,
where he has failed to leave anything
but damage and decay,
and when night falls I hold you indefinitely
in a crude bed of ancient wood and black soil
and rough sack and straw, my arms around you,
sharing our warmth in the dark, and outside
the wind howls and coils and twists
and writhes in agony for want of knowing
the bliss we share inside.
[Peter Clive]
Image courtesy of Aike Jansen
qmunicatemagazine.com 