On the corner stood a house. Unloved,
its weathered weatherboard. But now
a wire fence surrounds the lot.
No planks or window frames. No door
to enter. All signs of living, dead.
Where once the sound of children filled
the yard. Or played indoors from rain,
the mother shouting, all in vain.
‘Stop that noise, you’ll wake the baby!’
In nearby streets stand houses; twos
and threes, their storeys telling tales
of birth and death a hundred years
ago or more. Diphtheria
and measles, Whooping Cough and Scarlet
Fever. Spanish Flu, the dreaded
Smallpox. Typhoid Fever, too.
Now, all that’s left of one small cottage –
the outline of a roof on next door’s wall.
Image by Paz Arando