By Parson Thru
Laid out like flat-packs among the confused and constructionally inept.
No secrets anymore.
Nothing lurking dark and undiscovered behind a shuttered door.
Possessions - only one tenth of the law,
strewn and hanging from the trees.
What's left of them.
Clothes and linen waving in the breeze.
Pickers, picking among their things.
Ornaments and furnishings,
smashed and heirloomed out of time.
Out of heirs.
Blue plastic sheets, discreetly nailed
where modesty wishes to prevail,
make the scene so sad.
said the man sitting opposite.
"Came through here but twelve hours ago."
Then it was gone.