Notes left for someone to find

Calling from the hole;
The cracks beside this bed, will echo sounds lost through reams
Of scholarly failures before me,
Crying you to sleep or awakening your dreams.

And which of us will remain?
Ghosts walking among are soon to linger with kindred.
We may all be able to leave
But the house keeps a token; how large, depends on the dead.

Different now
From the moment of entry – yesterday or last year –
Change entraps time, snorkelling our memories;
Discarding flotsam, lampooning fear.

Time seems of little importance,
Life, at the time, now forgotten, along with the point of it all?
No deep truths, well, will we understand,
Here, our time is over, and soon some voice else will call.

We begin anew, elsewhere, somewhere
Separated, yet together; connected. You’ll find
You have the chance, here, now,
Not to understand your deep truths, rather the ones we leave behind.

The fleeting house

And they came back to the old cottage then, Maggie and he, after so many years away.
He marvelled at how well nature had hidden the place: “Saved, just for us!” But Maggie grew sad, poignant, thinking of how the old place had changed so, how it had not been cherished and loved. “I want to cry, I think,” she told him. “I’m happy too, but I want so much to cry some tears right now, for this place.”
He touched her though, wiped at her cheek before the tears had even started to well, and that was enough to make her smile and dry her eyes and take his hand as they continued to walk along the edge of the dry stone wall.
This was a palace of great wonder to both their lives, and even the ravages of time and nature could not dim its memory and meaning.
When they got to the gate they both tensed and resisted. “You go first,” she whispered, and he nodded, leading her slowly across the threshold once again.