Back from the Old House

A bank of soil
becomes towns and roads,
the bottomless abyss
where danger hovers,
silent dens hide smoke
herb gardens emit a roast,
a future armageddon
lost in a daydream.

A pool posessed by tyres
trees become frail silhouettes,
mist hangs shrouding me
against its pale creation,
Smell’s of winter
hides the drones of military might,
the midnight express
echoes in the night.

Aroma’s in rooms around me
life is rushing back,
with each vague movement
I hear old dogs bark,
protection is the rain
ending near winters veil,
frantically but silently
present dangers fail.