Tread gently beneath the fragile fanlight

With its curving carved ribs

framing rippling glass

 

Glance up to the Venetian arch with its Canaletto morning sky

And the uncoiled mahogany staircase

Treads echoing to the creak and clatter of murmurous ghosts

 

Peel the plaster skin from the wall

Withies within, woven by dead fingers

Stiff reeds droop with the stilled promise of sagging seed heads

Still soft, but as old as redwoods, rising through clouds in Pacific forests

 

What builder carefully

plaited and laid them

In their snug cocoon of lime?

Could he imagine

They would lie there all this time?

 

Until now.

 

Startled by the sun again

Just as they swayed in that last instant

Before the glint and swing of the scythe.