The House That Was

Finally, they razed it to the ground

The house with the red tiled roof

And the wooden balustrade.

The quaint little house with the cobbled garden path.

I saw a man at the gate

Clutching the iron rails

Watching the workers pull down

The compound wall…

brick by brick.

He stood still, for quite sometime

Clutching the rails, as if it had been his

That house they razed to the ground

The one with the red tiled roof

And the ivy covered walls.

In the arbour towards the east

There stood a rusty bicycle

Its seat worn out and spokes missing

A wicker chair with a broken leg lay beside it.

While, in the evening breeze a faded scarf fluttered

forgotten on the clothes line.

And the dust was everywhere,

Covering the ground.

I would miss that house

With its red tiled roof and long French windows

And the bougainvillea

With its white and purple flowers

Hanging over the wall, spilling onto the road outside.

Often, when out for a walk

I would stop by, to recall some tid-bit

About the house that was.