Silent at first, as eerie as the grave, when the cry of children pierces the air
Feet upon granite floor, the hurried pattering of chilled footsteps
met by the smell of smoke, it’s inferno source hidden by the smoke itself.
The room is cast in gloom, lit merely by the ember glow of burning coals.
Onwards, to the confinement of a boiling claustrophobia, lit merely by small
windows, a view to the freedom of the world outside.
Ticking guides our sight- Cuckoo! Cuckoo! It’s shrill cry showing us
the inky black hell pit offering food for the blaze and hosting writhing life
of despicable needs, and above an object of synecdoche
as solemn and as simple as the brass house key.
Steep steps, cut at rough angles, lead us up to the landing.
Where, upon the black circle burnt into the floor,
patiently waits a grandfather clock that ticks and tocks no more.
There is something sad about the solemn scene before me, but a pleasing melancholy,
after all, as a wise woman once said, Sad is merely Happy for deep people.
It’s abandonment, it’s decrepitness, the way in which it seems to sight, entices me into wondering of it’s aim.
The gloom of it’s ruin, silent for the roar of motor cars, eerie as the grave,
until it becomes surrounded by the joy of young children, and the blur of red jumpers,
a shadow in the light.
It will never be restored, it’s fortunes never realised, but it carries it’s hope nonetheless.
And the day that hope is rewarded, I imagine, will be the Day the Mice Come Home.