I keep looking for the cracks,
the tell tale sign of disrepair,
that stems from attic to foundation
and the worrying whisper of wet,
damp through rumours and idle gossip
of the leak somewhere in this housed body;
perhaps I should look for the solid join,
too few,
too few original parts,
just the undertone of shifting
boards that sigh, telling me it’s too late,
my edifice, my home
is breaking down.
Ian D. Hall 2018