This house was once full of music
but now it’s a place
where dead melodies pepper
the dirty bone-white sills
like dried out bluebottles.
No one creaks down its corridors
to boil up milk in the middle of the night.
No one opens the shutters in the morning
to feed it light.
The floorboards no longer gossip.
Desiccated moths and spiders
powder its lintels.
Its cupboards are pockets for rot.
It longs for ghosts or stray cats,
an implant of pulse,
some breath to lift its dust,
a string of bats to bead its rafters.
It longs for the old tunes
to crawl back home,
to drag themselves
over its crusty threshold
like tired toads.