.
Two lines of cold grey cottages stand,
like decaying teeth in the mouth of Hades.
Grim acknowledgement to a long dead past,
monuments to the what if's and maybes.

A dark stain on the undergrowth of Nature,
the mud filled pond reeks of sick disease.
Brick and concrete tumble down slowly,
as She reclaims land in shallow degrees.

But peace and tranquility live here now,
under the pall of a decomposing host.
Trees grow, birds sing and flowers bloom,
perhaps to entertain the departing ghosts.



© Pagan Paul (2017)