Not Lost in France
Poetry
It's falling down
brick by brick,
tile by tile,
slowly but surely
the house
on that country lane
that everyone called
the house of broken dreams.
Rooms once filled with laughter
are now opening their
warm embrace
to frosted skies
in the house of broken dreams.
The fire in the hearth
holds no warmth
and the dancing flames
that followed the rythmn
of a slow country ballad
is now
cold and dark
in the house of broken dreams.
They said he'd sat there
for too many years
reading letters from the past
that had filled
more than a page.
A simple candle to light
the words
before
it became
the house of broken dreams.
It's falling down
brick by brick,
tile by tile,
the house they'd built,
all that's left
is
the memory of her smile
before they took her away
that smile that stopped him leaving
the
house of broken dreams.
When the last brick fell
he knew it was time
to follow the path
she'd followed
and
finally close the door
on the pain
of the
house of broken dreams.
David English (c) February 2009.
