I am moving house
leaving a deleted
history behind me.
Raised and razed.
Seems to be what
we humans do best.
I won't look back,
can't, too painful,
I'm the last of the
name, nobody to
pass on the albums
and reams of cuttings.
Our dismantled home
looks like a Gaza street.
Hook holes in the wall
where the wounds of
history were concealed
behind family portraits.
Packing cases stacked
remind me of coffins in
a morgue and the bird
feeders will empty soon
after we leave, they've
never been without.
The neighbours will
punctuate the changeover
paragraph with a blink,
then we'll be gone, forever.