Last Evidence

Mid day, and the river is steamy any mysterious,
a slow moving green.
Now and then, a fish rises from the depths
and disturbs the water, hungry
for the water striders that dance unaware on the surface.
The smell of decay lingers in the air.

There is no one to be seen
in the temple, no life except the monkeys
that peer out of windows and hang on the doorframes,
their cries like laughs echoing over the water.

Vines creep over the walls and through windows and doors.
Look beyond the river bank and you can see
walls of green, the red brick consumed
by abandonment and benign neglect.
In a generation, maybe two,
the last evidence of this place of worship
will disappear.

You feel a shiver down the back of your neck,
a sadness and a fear,
and as the temples fade in the distance, you feel
a sudden need to pray.

About this poem

Neglect is an insidious killer. Of love. Of faith. Of talent. Of hope.

Tom