There is a place called Nineveh.

The name is etched on cloudy glass

above the squat wide door.

A door for coffins and their bearers.

A place called Nineveh.

 

Once the old range was warm

with the peppery smell of pasties

and the sound of miners' boots rang.

 

It had its time for guests to stay

in this place called Nineveh.

Of breakfast bacon frying

and trifle with clotted cream

rounding off the evening meal.

 

Later handrails and stair lifts were

fitted, in this place called Nineveh.

That was before the ghosts came.

Now all is frowzy

and furniture is swaddled like ghosts

in deserted rooms.

 

Nineveh has a postcode now but it will

always be in the lane at Promised Land.

The house called Nineveh.

Standing its ground.