The Empty Nest, Audrey Thompson

They shape the frame,
These cuboid walls of glass and brick,
These paths of paved stone and little hedgerows,
And the great iron thing
Squatting above the train tracks,
Its legs coiled into springs,
Poised to leap away like an insect.

They form the canvas
Upon which a year is painted.
One of the newer years,
In sheer mass if not quality,
Though that depends on who's year is being painted.

It's a new stage
For the second act of a young play,
With a fresh cast,
Mostly fleeting,
But some deign to stay for the later scenes.

It feels empty, almost,
Coming back and finding
Someone else's painting,
Someone else's play,
While yours is still so vividly there.

It's drowning, now,
Beneath the fresh concrete,
Whirring engines,
And the weight of all that's changed.

But it's still here.