• Anna Brozek

The House

Updated: Aug 23



The souls still wandered in the house as the bodies went away.

What more profound remnants can there be

than the remnants of an empty house?

Chairs plonked twisted in angles of swing

where the people once sat.

Empty mugs and cold tea bags

the last sip already stained around the border.


The faint air of lunch

and unfinished conversation

and the lucid, piercing silence

broken only by the song of rosellas and yellow-tailed cockatoos.


The memory of movement lives on in the bones of the house.

Kitchen tiles now cold and splattered

faint smells of cooking not yet vanished.

The piano mourns the silence

lone but for the books and clutter atop.

Lone but for the ukulele

a tiny companion

cheery and playful

always

rescuing the piano when it dives in sombre waters

when it dives too deep.


When it sings those sorrowful sounds

dark and solemn, making the world beautifully grim

enough to shed a thousand tears over a field of dead roses.


Pulling the mood yet further back in time

and further back in colour

the old friend accordion, too

laments the memories that once were.

Prolonged cries

undulating amidst the lowest of lows

a slow ballad of misery is dying to be played

but there’s no one to play it.


With deafening quietness from themselves,

the instruments of life lie still

without a soul to wield them.




But wait

It was only afternoon

It was only afternoon at the wooden, woven house.

They do return, the eclectic group

each bearing a piece of their story

communing

living

beneath the bones that once shaded us.














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