This pale picture that was our house

Rain-washed, paint-brushed
so many times crimson ivy bloom through
the creases in autumn. Tough winds
of winter storms lashing its pebble-dashed
spiderweb-embroidered face
but then again copper-seared lustre
from long afternoons and later,
lamp-lit windows in the dark blue -

When the removal van came
we did not talk to the men who carried
our things, tied and packed
for a future in tatters.
What's left is burnt.

Bonfires went for weeks, the smoke
upsetting our neighbours.
Now we stoop over, we unpick
the burnt knots of memory
to still our weeping hunger.
A snatch of blue in the mind.
Eyes that still fill.