Stately Manor of my Youth: A Blipping Shadow

The driveway neatly swept of leaves,
volunteer roots culled, stray rocks plucked,
now a vestige of wind-blown chaff, a
hedgerow cultivating weeds, a nest for
locusts, a latrine for stray beasts

The black shingles-square blocks of coal
shadowing the spiring sun, glistening
with the dewy provender of sinking clouds,
shielding its caretakers from the sharp projectiles
catapulted from gnarled boughs; transformed into
a patchy labyrinth of rotting shells, intermittent gaps,
swallowing the corroding waves of mother nature.
A haven for nesting fowl, playground for squirrels.

The stately columns baring the grace and sanctity
of an Athenian temple, whose girth traced regal
dignity, whitewashed with nature's, pristine chalk,
a beacon shining from its cropped perch. A portal
of solemnity and mirth; morphing into leaning towers
that front a crumbling citadel, a pock-marked shroud
cowering in the wind, graying boulders
standing vigil over the dark copse.

The wrap-around porch was a carousel with delightful accoutrements.
Lanterns gilded with Venetian glass that shimmered
in the sun's watchful eye and shot sparks to the night canopy.
A genteel swing of smooth-bore birch gleaned from Sylvan's,
enchanted strand, and coated with a satin sheen. A sturdy chain
linking the noble carriage to its heavenly crest, setting our bodies
in motion as we peered through the open window into an existential realm,
where Nature contravened our domesticated norms.
Sparkling fireflies stamped the cloudy mist with their dragon tips,
and drunken crickets with their clicking legs sang an eerie lullaby.
Surrounded by suspended chalices- porcelain pots decorated
by artisan hand; a Babylonian hanging garden cultivating then
sodding our palates.

In its final state, a crestfallen stage with peeled facade,
whose sinking platform is melded to its organic grave.
A broken pinwheel whose geometric curves have folded.
The lanterns are broken window panes. Inside no flame stokes.
A dry-powdered cartridge no flint can spark; its glint
no longer carves space into the dark night. Comely swing
now a chipped, cracked frame. Its dangling seat a perch for crows,
ballasting chain a pendulum of loose links listlessly swaying
in the breeze. Our exotic, swinging garden, now a cradle
swaddled by corrosive bands, decaying shards of scaled plaster
with soiled stains cankered by ravenous bacteria.

The elegant form that shadowed my memory for so many years,
now a decaying nightmare. Its visceral mold a perforated outline
of the fortress of my youth. My nostalgic dreams lie buried
in the dust of time. The rusticated shambles no longer an
inviting causeway. Recoiling at the sight of the peripheral ruins,
I impulsively condemn the inner sanctum, denying my heart
a glimpse at the splintered strands of its first love. After one,
last, winsome look, I turn to face the scorning copse,
who, from recycled seeds, maintained its pristine form.