Lucy Cole Gratton, Black Hole

Lucy Cole Gratton
BLACK HOLE

Tall weeds grow where once was lawn,
decayed fencing still fights for space,
a skeleton of what once had been a chimney
rises from a clump of young pines.
Weather beaten sheds hang aslant
propped up by tangled vines;
the house, burned to the ground,
no longer a black blight since overgrown.
Still – few strangled flowers bloom.

A passing traveler, earnest clothes
askew from the business of his day
will not notice, even neighbors
caught up in the now will not remember
what once was a family’s home
so completely vanished in the jungle
of just a few years’ growth.
Laughter was there, now gone;
no echoes float on enduring wind.

Will my words decay as well,
smother in the tangle of others,
leaving no trace of me
or what I think?
Will there exist instead
an empty place, void of meaning,
where people pass routinely,
not remember who I am
but for an abandoned scrap of words?

Author’s Comment: I pass this derelict house, burned to the ground and overgrown with weeds, each time I leave home. It is a poignant reminder of the ambiguity of life.

Bio: Lucy Cole Gratton is a retired CPA living in Murphy, NC, and a native of Decatur, GA. . She has written poetry and prose for many years – only lately seeking to publish with some success, both nationally and internationally. A member of the North Carolina Writers Network, she regularly attends critiques and readings of that organization. She has read at John Campbell Folk School many times and has taken many poetry classes there.

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10 thoughts on “Lucy Cole Gratton, Black Hole

  1. Really nice job, Lucy! I loved the last stanza–the comparison you’re making. Especially:
    ‘Will my words decay as well,
    smother in the tangle of others,
    leaving no trace of me’

  2. The first verse is a painting in words. I’m falling right into the scene. I guess we all (poets) feel the same and ask the same question. Our words are a fine legacy. Thanks.

  3. I like this poem very much. I have for many years, since adolescence, pondered old houses, who once was there, and why they are no longer there, and what the house may have looked like in its heyday. But the memories are still alive, every time a poet ponders and writes.

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