Cheese Bottom Bungalow
On Christmas day we shushed past
the bungalow near Cheese Bottom
in the tyre-plashed rainsome sob and
absent stare of safety glass
Trees flashed and fluttered colours,
Deer and Santas deflated
in pools of plastic on the lawns
better lights, even better lights
blind us to the indoors - burning puds
and wine schmoozed recklessness
that Jesus hath wrought
With bare rafters and no tiles
grey nets hung in coal dust
hugged the bold, square bays
hiding forgotten things in symmetric decay
and furniture braved the welling skies
held back only by sodden plaster
Absent occupants
unscissor the lawn
unclip the shambolic shrubs, prune no fruit
nor tend the papered walls
with peppered patterns
all battered and torn
Might there be duck over the mantelpiece
or the Green Lady with tales to tell?
The TV stares, mute
and impressions on bed and sofa
cry out for some oddly missing soul
Maybe neighbours know or even care
or the post mistress across
hoards unopened news
about some hopeless loss
And maybe time will tell
the name upon the lease
only whispered now
like forgotten Christmas geese
Or must years turn to decades
for some stranger to come, to know,
just why on such a busy road
there stands a bungalow…