Christopher Edwards

Rising from the damp, muddy sprawl of the moor,
Bubbling up through its mouldy stamping ground.
Reaching the surface. Breathing.

Cascading down the rocky track,
Crashing against stones like knives. And faces
Of granite; grey and dead. Laughing.

Reaching the level, the town; the end.
Building up in itself, destroying all with itself.
Get washed away, my friends. Get soaked.

II

It’s good for the soul, this is. When
you have to bail yourself out
Of what used to be your home: your own.

Evicted by the very substance
that keeps your revered life ticking over.
But master, what served you so well, is now

what laps at your feet and
breaks your hope and your resolve.
A dirty brown revolution. Flooding

your mind. And blurring
the edges of photographs.

III

Now it has gone. But somehow, after
the torrent and the fright have flowed away,
it remains, in soul and in memory. Biting.

The walls of the past are now stained, and
a lonely piece of weed is settled and still,
in the carpet. Squatting.

You can return, you can reside. You can even
hope and pray. But after the event,
nothing can be the same again. This is

not your house. Not now, not anymore.