The sun burned down, tanning her skin, and yet
no comforting heat did it bring to him
to know these summer days would be their last
with this view so long theirs only, soon gone
with a wave, incoming, of buyers new
and hungry for their history; lost now
to new money and faces of greed. His
father would turn in his grave; his mother
would cry without stop. He was relieved they
were dead. Sweet peace of ignorance. But now
their bags were packed, the extraneous sold.
Tomorrow, they’d be on their way; today,
they would sit and soak in the sun – final
happy memory. Last taste of solitude.
[Copyright N R Nolan © 2015]