Let me tell you about a house on the street where I live #39
It’s the house at the end.
White paint flakes off the front gate,
wood rots beneath. The rusted latch
doesn’t shut it — when the wind changes
it takes the gate with it. Someone forgot
a concrete block on the path. A buddleia
eclipses the front garden like a fountain,
ivy grips the crumbling brickwork.
The curtains stay drawn, the house stays dark
except for every 15th February
when the bedroom light comes on around 7.30PM
and stays on all night.
Someone hears a poem about winter.
Stewart Carswell grew up in the Forest of Dean and one day he will return. He studied Physics at university and writes poetry like a scientist: with curiosity and simplicity. His debut collection Earthworks (Indigo Dreams, 2021) features poems about history, landscape, and identity. Website: stewartcarswell.co.uk