History In Defeat

History In Defeat

Rain cannot quell the passion.
Umbrellas form a chanting picket line,
placards march in desolate hope.
Behind a wire fence bulldozers circle
uninhibited by sentiment.

The storm drains away.
Decay turns into liquid moss:
country estate pulsates with former soirée and charm.
I feel its need for wicker and wrought iron,
rose gardens,
picnics,
facelifts.

I question the lure.
Is there a common bond?
The way life ambles along
with old fashioned mottos,
the renovations of self
to suit social demands.

Against sandstone excess
ivy has left its cling-mark/
greenish debauchery corrupts,
coronets over top storey windows abandon the burden
carried by two floors below.

Fallen granite, broken balustrades,
the stuff of pipedreams and denial,
reality throws a tantrum
like an errant child.

Surround land unpeels into small segments.
Location is in control—that bitch of progress
in league with urban ghettoism.
The first wall tumbles in an electric crash,
bloodthirsty jaws bite into a sacred past/
mine and yours.