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The house was empty and
the people of the house
gone many months
Months for the weevil
for the patient worm
timber-mole softly tunnelling
for the parliament of rats
Footsteps slink past
damp walls
down
long
corridors
Slow feet
warily scuff
bare boards
The much-bitten
tapestry
holds
many
moths
In a certain curtain'd room
the halting steps evade
chairs white shrouded
To twitch the winding-sheet
around a grand piano
thin phalanx of sound
sharp rat's teeth edge yellow
with decay
The much-bitten
tapestry
holds
many
moths
On rat's teeth-edge
fingers preparate
hesitate
Then falling send
as tenantry
darnp-muffied chords
rusting strings
a still-born song
| Their fortissimo | | The tattered | | scarce | | tapestry | | stirs | | holds | | near | | many | | cobwebs | | moths |
Hugh Sykes Davies
Read poems about / on: house, song, music, people, wind
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