Everythingís just as I want it:
all my possessions
laid out in my own home
till my furniture, unbidden,
packs itself into a van
that disappears through the gate.
Emulsion trickles down walls
to gather in its cans, newly liquid.
Switches and power points
click into non-existence;
wiring slithers back to its reels
in tightening coils.
Windows gape, unglazed,
at plasterboard departing
sheet by sheet by sheet.
Roof slates peel off into a stack;
exposed wooden trusses lower themselves
gingerly into the mud.
A flat oblong slab funnels into
a battered, orange concrete mixer
thatís rotating the wrong way
and a full-grown elm tree
levers itself upright,
a small rookery in its branches.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Helen
Evans would be pleased to hear them.