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Nigel Stuart


My house will never stand,
where the wild curlew plucks the wind,
and eyes can clutch the evanescent outline
of eternal hills.

My house will never stand,
upon broad-terraced Tuscan slopes,
where stark, untilled lie burnt Siena hectares
of lost artists’s ground.

My house will never stand,
above the secret valley’s floor,
with corbels carved to bear, silenced, the beauty
of brave, tumbled walls.

My house will never stand,
re-built upon the loch-side cliff,
to claim Blabhen’s sunset and moon-path over
galley-absent seas.

For where my house will stand,
rests not on Minto’s snooty crag,
nor Pius’s parade of earthly fortune –
proud, false footings both;

And where my house will stand,
is ground that Puivert could not hold,
nor Dun Scaith’s stones reincarnate as idyll –
times – spoiled as its walls.

My house will only stand
where passing people pass not on,
and brief lives sieze, for their eternal moments,
strongholds on my heart.

Submitted: Monday, December 12, 2011
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