The lost house

A lost  house talks quietly to the lake
In a tender  morning light of its birds
Birds that are in no hurry for shadows
Of a camera not opening quite to trees
But  its shadows tail  buildings fallen
Headlong into a morning lake of gold

The lake laps up against a parapet wall
Of nobody  leaning against it for  view.
Absences are ghosts with no prior bodies
Absences that could have turned men
If  the house had stood erect to the lake
The lake for company on moonlit nights
With a  moon falling across the parapet
To the ripples of a soft  wind in the lake

The lake’s trees make a luminous frame
To the shadows of birds, the buildings
Fallen into its  shimmer,  a  moonlight
Of the previous night still  cherished
By the lost house as a tender memory
Of leaves fallen to the moon of the lake,
Not its absences near the parapet wall.


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