Love Is A Monument A House Poem by Mark Heathcote

Love is a monument to a house when it's empty.
Where the wind climbs the rickety spiral stairs
A ghost in her nightdress hovers in her -penitentiary
Looking on dead golden pastures, unaware
The beatings of her heart don't make a sound.
Not one, chime crunch of leaves searching around.

Love is a monument to a house when it's empty.
Like disused Sunday school with a piano
Playing only to a scarecrow looking back all edgy
In the distance, black crows circle in the shadows.
Then come to rest on a rusty old iron harrow,
Above someone's long-forgotten dry bones.

Love is a monument to a house when it's empty.
Lost in its self-importance, eerie
All the widows echo. Who has taken over my room?
When the dead and the living appear and disappear
Like a lonely child staring back at the full moon
Waiting for sunlight from yesterday to reappear.