Friday1 Sept

Mortlake Road

The building waits at the side of a busy road.
Empty except for creaks.
It speaks.
All houses have a way to be heard.
Generational flight paths,
Linger on.
Patter and chatter traced in abandoned cobwebs.
In the cupboard below the stairs is the 5 year old's shiny bike.
and in the attic are fifty years' back issues of the national geographic.
And a samurai sword.
It is cold. The roof more than leaks there are gaping holes.
Frightening sky-filled gaps, dizzying to four floors below.
Poking around two generations of domestic stock.
When it's flats will it remember?
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