Out of the ruined houses
nettles leap barking like
wolves,
defensive and territorial,
full of contained aggression.
The ash trees sigh and
whisper quietly;
new comers they,
a green roof rising from the
roofless parlour.
People lived here and left
the year I was born.
They took their livestock and
their roof with them.
The ash trees are too young
to remember.
They know nothing of Death
yet.
They could ask the fuchsias:
they know.
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