Old Forest Cottage

Cracked walls. Swallow nests
knit the eaves tight into bunches.
Dank twigs crunch under boot
as the hall's shadow urges me in.
A porous door resists,
then grants entry with a grunt.

Dark-green forest scent
has bled into the walls,
furred by condensed lime.
The rooms are upside-down,
ceilings aground, upstairs floors
now roof an ashen frame.

A patter above may tempt, but
cracks of rotten steps deny.
Old grey stone, grey
chipped mantle corners grow
huge webs, spun thread
across the petrified room.

A bird flits from one corner,
wafts time through the slow silk.
I jolt back, let it pass then
backstep out through my path
slicing turgid air, funky with spores.