Lauren Mitchell

Fire of 1943

The sullen streets were once ripe
with economy. The vine laden
church stood proud with god's posture.

When the fires came they swept
through these hallowed alleys, searing
the oak boards to the nails.
They licked the windows with sooty tongues.
They clapped plywood on the doors,
and scattered dust in the backrooms.

Ophelia, you would find a haven here.
Once loved, and left as these stables are.

There is nothing now.
Fleeting dogs and old men
shadowed by death's promise
to silence the eyes.

The wind's sermons are heard
by few in the streets.
Still, the poplar stands tall in the square
it tells nothing of it's loss.