I watch the rat boys
trip the light fantastic
across once well manicured floors
of forests of wood and panel
lined walls graffitied with
the signature **** and *****
language that would not
have been tolerated in such
hallowed halls, falls easily
from lips accented with Yorkshire drawl
appreciating architecture they can
(like the rest of us)
only dream could be their pad
their crib, their humble abode
with a taste for the gothic
or art nouveau
they are lookers, explorers
nosey little toads fuelled by
an unquenchable curiosity
to see what's behind that fence
that hedge or garden wall
if you find them in your house
you are a ghost, for they hunger
only for the derelict, the abandoned
time stopped in a moment preserved

They are still here
recorded in peeling paint
cracked plaster and bare floors
as though only just left, momentarily
a life suspended

nature has forgotten the boundaries
where once walls protected
creepers, moss and mould
add their colour to the decor
lit by the same sun, life here

continues behind a veil
pictures still adorn the walls
faces of our fallen heroes
blindly stare as a photographer
records the passing of an era.