Where is the one that built
this tumble-down deserted house,
this torn asunder, famine plagued
wilderness of want?
The one who stunned the tongue of doubt
and perched this house divided
on dispute’s shifting stone?
The one who dipped his brush
into the dark pot of neglect
and daubed the crumbling walls
The one who heard the children cry
and a woman’s tortured soul
who with punctured eardrums rent
the rags of warmth?
The one who with calloused hands
and bitter fingers unpicked the stitches
from the threadbare carpet of togetherness?
The one who mixed the mortar
for destruction’s barren bricks
and deftly wove the curtains
Where is the one? Where is the one?
I am here seeker, in the shadowed
ruins of my inheritance.
I am here seeker, in the bleak and
barren oneness of myself.
Painting Rupert Loydell